


★ BREAK THE LIMIT ★

by LowDawn (EmpiricalBias)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tokusatsu, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-07 05:44:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 46,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11052552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpiricalBias/pseuds/LowDawn
Summary: Lúcio doesn't notice until the second day that he's been playing at the new venue: the silhouette of a helmeted man crouched on the corner of the roof across the street, a mysterious figure keeping watch over this little neighborhood. The stranger could just as easily be a villain but Lúcio's been reading about a lone vigilante in the area, beating up muggers and thwarting break-ins. He likes to imagine that that's who it is—  his shadowy mystery friend.





	1. New Challenger Approaching

Lúcio doesn't notice until the second day that he's been playing at the new venue: the silhouette of a helmeted man crouched on the corner of the roof across the street. He catches sight of him sometimes, late when he leaves for home; on particularly foggy or moonless nights he sees nothing, but likes to imagine him there anyway, a mysterious figure keeping watch over this little neighborhood. The stranger could just as easily be a villain, but Lúcio's been reading about a lone vigilante in the area, beating up muggers and thwarting break-ins. He likes to imagine that that's who it is— his shadowy mystery friend.

They've been calling him Cyborg Ninja, which is _quite cool_ — but a name that also, in Lúcio's humble opinion, makes a lot of assumptions about someone who hasn't revealed very much about himself.

Regardless, he keeps an eye out for the silhouette, and often when the moon is brighter or the clouds sparser, he can catch the telltale glint of a visor, pointed spikes that jut from the front of his face turned toward him.

Having a vigilante lurk in his general vicinity should be more unnerving. But Lúcio's pretty sure he's not being followed or stalked, and the one time he catches Cyborg Ninja looking and waves, the guy actually waves back before he disappears from his usual perch.

Whoever they are, at least they have good taste in music.

It’s after a particularly grueling day of performance that Lúcio decides to take an ill-advised shortcut back, heart set on a hot shower and microwave pizza. In a caffeine-fueled haze, the risk of encountering some petty criminals seems vastly outweighed by the guarantee of ten minutes off his travel time— and he’s even back on his usual route, not three blocks from home, when two figures shamble around the corner. One has a balaclava obscuring their face; the other, a white mask.

He’s moving to duck around them when one extends an arm, blocking his way.

Any hope that they might be friendly or just a few fans looking for an autograph dies in his chest. _I didn’t,_ Lúcio thinks indignantly to himself, _come from the favelas of Rio to get mugged by these clowns._

Almost too exhausted to be afraid he asks aloud, “Can I help you?”

Face-mask points at his trumpet case. Of course. “Open that up."

“Yeah,” scoffs Lúcio, feeling a familiar prickle between his shoulder blades, “I don’t think so.”

“He asked pretty nicely,” Balaclava says, undeterred. The men straighten now, both tall enough to loom over him. It’s a passable attempt at intimidation— but what really catches Lúcio’s attention isn’t their height advantage, it’s the taller one’s hand reaching into a coat pocket as he goes on, growling, “Why don’t you do what he says before we stop being so polite?”

Lúcio inhales, covering his mouth with one hand, tired fingers dragging down his jaw. His exhale is slow, the narrowing of his eyes measured. “Are you for real right now?”

His other hand flexes, uneasily, around the handle of his trumpet case. He’s come too far down the block to bolt the way he came— and in the state that he’s in, he would have to abandon his case to have any chance at losing pursuers, if they bothered chasing him at all. It’s the equipment they want, not him; they might be willing to fight for it, but he’s decidedly _not_ open to the idea of losing or damaging his only instrument.

Escape doesn’t seem to be an option.

The resolve must be apparent on his face. At a grunt and a telltale jerk of the chin from his partner in crime, Balaclava takes a step closer. Lúcio retreats an equal distance, teeth gritting as his empty hand closes into a fist. Over the thunder of his blood in his ears, he picks out the shuffle of fabric; the distinctive whiff-click of a knife flipping open, too. And—

_“A-CHAAA!”_

Lúcio freezes.

For a long moment, nobody moves. Face-mask breaks first, glancing nervously upward at an empty sky. “The fuck was tha—”

He’s looking in the wrong direction. Still frozen, Lúcio stares as two large, green spikes appear out of the gloom, just behind both muggers’ heads.

Barely a heartbeat later he meets Face-mask’s confused glance an instant before he crumples to the ground, laid low by an elbow to his temple. Balaclava goes next, no time to react before a booted foot plows into the crook of one knee, bringing him in range of a vicious chop to the neck.

Three blows, two out of two muggers down. It's over before he can blink. Lúcio takes a reflexive step back, releasing the breath he’d been holding; his muggers’ assailant steps over their groaning bodies, and into view.

Visor, check. Spikes, check. The latter are as oversized as he remembers, affixed to a helmet sitting firmly atop a familiar, uniformed silhouette.

"Lúcio,” it says. “Are you alright?”

Oh, wow. The voice is new.

"Uh,” Lúcio manages to say, raking his eyes over the new figure— down, over the spotless white scarf, the close-fitting body armor, the tasteful blue lights and chrome decals; then up, lingering on the belt, the long hilt of what looks like an augmented katana— before visibly shaking himself. Cautiously, he lowers his guard. “Hi. Green Cyborg Ninja Dude. Right? I've seen you around?"

Green Cyborg Ninja Dude doesn’t respond immediately. He (Lúcio feels safe in assuming for the moment) ducks his head after a long second, then starts, "Ah.” There’s another short pause before he offers his name, gesturing to himself. “Genji."

"That's definitely less of a mouthful," Lúcio tells him, unnecessarily.

The ranger pauses, as if just considering what he’s just told his audience of one— then slowly raises a finger to his helmet's mouth. Somehow the set of his shoulders manages to come off as humorous. "Shh. Don't tell anyone."  
  
Lúcio raises an eyebrow. Both eyebrows. "You got it. Green ranger it is.”

A measured tilt of the head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Lúcio returns.

“Although, I am not a ranger,” Genji continues, sliding into a crouch, “I am a rider.” One of the men lying unconscious at his feet begins to stir in earnest, but finds himself pinned to the ground before he can make a move. When Lúcio steps forward, the desire to assist overpowering whatever else is still making his pulse race, Genji holds up a gloved hand. “I can take care of them. The station is not far.”

Lúcio hefts his trumpet case to his other side, then frowns, glancing back toward the mouth of the alley. “You’re gonna take them alone?” he asks, brow furrowing. “Can you manage?”

“I have been doing this a while,” is the amused reply, “but thank you for your concern.”

Oh. “Right. Okay.”

Intrigued, he watches Genji produce two pairs of handcuffs from some compartment in his armor. It's late, some part of Lúcio’s rattled brain reminds him. He should have been home by now. While Genji sets to work Lúcio retrieves his phone, only to hiss through his teeth at the time displayed on its backlit screen.

He should go. “I should go,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He repockets his phone without really having seen anything on it and looks at the ranger. “I guess... I’ll be seeing you around?” he ventures.

The men are restrained and slumped against each other, and Genji stands over them with his visor trained on Lúcio’s face. He moves fast. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m only a few blocks away.” Lúcio throws a thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the club he’d come from. “You should come inside sometime, you know, if you’re not too busy. I play—”

“Every Wednesday, and Friday,” says Genji.

Lúcio blinks, then makes no effort to conceal the smile that blooms slowly over his face. Maybe he shouldn't feel as flattered as he does but considering his mystery friend is now _confirmed_ a hero, and a professional at that, it's hard not to take what he's just said any other way. “Yeah,” he nods. “Until the second week of next month.”

That earns him another short pause as the ranger— rider— looks away, digesting the information. “I see.” The helmet bobs once before it swivels in his direction again; Lúcio has to fight the urge to laugh. He can almost visualize the invisible blink of Genji’s eyes before he says, “You will be missed. Your music is… relaxing to hear, especially on on long nights. Thank you.”

“Hey, no way! Thank _you_ .” If his expression had qualified for bright a moment ago Lúcio is practically _beaming_ now, emphatically pressing an open palm over his heart; helping people is what his music is _for_. “I’m real happy to hear it.”

“If that is all,” Genji says, turning slowly in place, “you should go. I will take care of the rest.”

Lúcio inhales to bid goodbye, then starts. “Wait. Genji— can I give you a copy of my album?”

Genji stops short.

“Your album?” The spikes swivel around, helmet angled back with a curious, hesitant air. “... you have copies?”

Oh, how it pays to be prepared. “You bet!” Slinging his case off his shoulder and onto the sidewalk, Lúcio reaches into a side pocket for two CDs, brandishing them with a flash of bright white teeth. “And if it helps a hero,” he says, “I definitely don’t mind parting with a disc or two.”

“I would not call myself a hero,” Genji protests weakly, drawing closer all the same.

Lúcio looks very pointedly down at one unconscious figure, then the other, then back at Genji. “Okay, ranger,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “can I give you my album if we agree to disagree?”

“Rider,” Genji retorts immediately, though his words curl with the telltale note of a laugh, helplessly charmed by Lúcio’s enthusiasm. _If only heroism were so easily defined._ “But… I would like that. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Oh, you know I’m all about arrangements.” Lúcio grins, already unzipping another side compartment on his case for a sharpie. He hands over the CDs, signature freshly scrawled on each plastic case. “One for you, one for a friend. There’s a code inside you can scan for a download,” he adds, unafraid as the other man draws near. Nearer than before. “In case you don’t have an old-fashioned player.”

Genji accepts the albums with both hands, head politely inclined. “Thank you,” he says, when he looks up from admiring the covers. “I will treasure these.”

From this distance, Lúcio can see his own smile reflected in that polished black visor. “Don’t mention it. Anything for a fan.”

The second surprise of the night: Genji’s soft laughter as he turns away, hand running over the back of his neck. It doesn’t last long, but Lúcio immediately knows that he won’t be able to forget it.

“Would you like me to escort you to where you are staying?” his newest fan offers.

“That’s nice, but...” Lúcio reluctantly gestures at the figures still sprawled at their feet as he stands, the strap of his bag held loose in his hand. “Don’t you have to take these guys to the station?”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Genji’s voice echoes Lúcio’s own, but it quickly turns wry. “Quite an inconvenience, these two.”

“You’re telling me.”

Genji drops into a crouch again, this time hauling the larger man over his shoulder and scooping the other one up to hang under his arm. “Will you be alright?” he asks, one more time.

“I can handle myself,” Lúcio answers, unable to help a moment of bewildered awe at the ease with which Genji had lifted them both. _I guess he really is a pro after all._ “Good night, Genji.”

“Good night, Lúcio.”

Lúcio turns, prepared to walk in the opposite direction Genji is going, until he realizes that that would take him back to the venue. He stops, barely suppressing a wince.

He needn't have worried: when he looks, barely a moment after realizing his mistake, Genji is already gone.

* * *

The ride from the station back to Shambali Pizza takes ten minutes; Genji stays low to his racer, taking corners at breakneck speed, knees practically scraping asphalt at every hairpin turn. His uniform falls away as he drives. Block by block, part by part. The full de-transformation is shielded from witnesses by the night, and the safety of one of several routes through the town that he’s committed to memory specifically for its lack of security feeds.

When he pulls up to the back of the shop, hitting a button on his bike’s handlebar to raise the garage door, he's only an ordinary motorcyclist.

Genji takes his time walking his vehicle inside. The store front’s already closed for the night— lights in the dining room all turned low, the kitchen behind it dark and empty. The roar of his engine cuts out and the calm night air rushes in; he dismounts, then pauses to flip up the cowl of his bike.

He pulls two CDs out of the glove compartment, checking the corners for damage. Inspection passed; he tucks them safely under his arm.

Inside the shop he’s greeted by a small army of tiny LED screens— the automated ovens, proofers, and dated (but functional) pizza-makers all blink slowly at him in tandem as he weaves his way through the kitchen, moving confidently for a far corner where a single storage closet conspicuously hides. On his way, he toes open the door of a waist-height refrigerator and swipes a twist-top bottle of something opaque and semi-fluid.

The closet door opens with an aged creak; the keypad that slides out the other side of the doorframe makes significantly less noise.

Removing his helmet one-handed, Genji punches in his access code and ducks inside the second, more carefully concealed entrance that segments open, letting the reinforced paneling slide shut behind him. He turns and waits for the telltale drop— a momentary weightlessness, and the smooth easing back into the weight of normal gravity— then instinctively steps forward. The wall opens again.

A domed ceiling arcs high above his head. Sparse but practical furnishings decorate the floor beneath. The circular space breaks symmetry at the far end, where open hallways lead deeper into the base. But here, in the center, a hologram of the earth rotates in the active area above a round, low-set table; the dimensional image reassembles into a flat local map at his approach.

Genji stops just before it, hip bumping tiredly against the table's edge. The plastic seal on his bottle breaks with a distinct _snap._

To one side, an omnic rises from rest, levitating out of a comfortable alcove. A circle of luminous orbs revolves slowly around him as he turns to acknowledge his visitor, long legs folding under his chassis as he wakes.

“I’m back,” Genji announces, raising a hand in greeting. His helmet lands lightly in the seat of a high-backed chair. “Any luck, master?”

“Welcome back,” Zenyatta replies, warmly. “I am afraid not. Your brother’s signature has disappeared from this city.” The nine sensors atop his head flicker briefly; some of his processors are still devoted to the algorithm. “How was your patrol?”

“It was fine,” answers Genji, rolling his neck. He brings the bottle to his mouth, finally, and half its contents— a protein supplement— vanish down his throat. “Here.”

“A gift?”

“Lúcio’s album.”

“I see.” Zenyatta takes note of the signature on the corner of Genji’s copy, then returns his attention to the one he is handed, turning it slowly from front to back. “My thanks.”

“He gave them to me after I stopped a theft,” Genji explains.

A thoughtful hum. “These are compact disks,” his master observes. “Discontinued well before my time. Shall we listen to them?”

“Yes.” A clatter, the sound of thin, plastic hinges creaking. Genji opens his case with one hand, reaches for his phone with the other. “I can download--”

“Actually,” Zenyatta interrupts gently, “I think I may have a player.”

“Really?”

Zenyatta drifts away, to a shelf of various electronics— many of them _clearly_ broken. Genji recognizes the pile; it’s been there since the Over-Watchers’ first incarnation, a growing collection of everyday devices each generation of rangers couldn’t bear to part with, even after they’d become obsolete. From under a stack of other outdated appliances Zenyatta selects a boxy, violet-blue device. “I had been looking forward to an opportunity to use this,” he says.

Genji can't help but cast a doleful look at the QR code printed on the inside cover— but he dutifully pops out the disc. “Master,” he admits after a moment, taking the device Zenyatta offers him, “I am not sure this will work.”

He presses a random button. A panel on the bottom of the entire thing flips open on a spring-loaded hinge.

Genji looks at it. Then he begrudgingly flips the device over.

Zenyatta’s head tilts at an affectionate, sage angle. “If we never try,” he says, “we will never know.”

By the time Genji gives up, he’s been fiddling with CD and player for well over fifteen minutes, first unable to fit the CD into its slot and then unable to turn the device on at all. Any power cord that it had originally come with is lost to the mess of cables on the rack’s bottom shelf, inextricably tangled with hundreds of others.

“Master,” Genji says at last, a plaintive edge to his exasperation, “this is not working.”

Beside him, Zenyatta looks one last time at the hopeless endeavor. “Yes,” he relents eventually, curling a hand under his chin. Shining chrome joints knock lightly against brass. “You are right.”

Genji appears exhausted.

“The download, then?” he asks.

“No need,” Zenyatta informs him steadily, bobbing gently in place. “I completed it as you worked.”

The rider stops, supplement bottle raised halfway to his face. He blinks twice before closing his parted mouth, head ducking. An amused huff escapes his lips. “It was worth a try,” he allows, setting the defunct box aside.

On the overhead speakers, track one of seven begins to play, opening in a soothing g-major. The sensors on his master’s forehead flash all at once in a whimsical, cheery pattern. “It was.”

* * *

The club Lúcio’s signed a contract with is cozy and quiet, its atmosphere characteristically subdued. The man himself cuts a sleek silhouette at the piano, hat jauntily cocked on top of his head, one foot keeping time against the hardwood floor as he sways to his own rhythm.

There’s no one but him on stage tonight, no sheet music to fall back on, no accompaniment to steal the show. Genji's eyes stay locked on stage, drawn and held by the way Lúcio's gloved hands flit over the keys, the graceful sweep of his bared forearms as he coaxes a melody. His outfit is simple: a crisp white dress shirt, a perfectly-tailored slate vest; pearl closures and a brilliant purple tie that pop against the subdued elegance of his vest-slacks combo. Whenever he leans over for a note on the very ends of the board his ponytail, a cloud of mossy, jet-black hair, bounces lightly. 

Genji doesn’t know the song that's playing but for the moment, he’s enjoying himself, and so is the musician. 

From across the street the sound had been faint but calming; up close, it seems to wash over Genji’s senses, pleasantly drowning out everything else. Lúcio, even with his eyes closed in concentration, doesn’t seem to know the meaning of ‘ambient music’— every eye in house, every ear, is arrested on him. The piano isn’t even loud but somehow it’s easy to hear: low chatter cedes every time to the swell of an arpeggio, and scattered laughter, though occasional, never lingers long when it conflicts with the line of melody. Even the soft thunk of glass on wood, when a patron remembers their drink, seems jarring— and sorry to fall out of rhythm, besides.

In hindsight this hoodie, in this particular shade of green, was a poor choice of attire. Genji slouches lower in his seat, trying not to draw attention. All the while the glass of plain lemon soda in his hand leaves a cold sweat of condensation on his fingers.

It’s too bad he doesn't feel more at ease; no one has bothered him since he found and took a seat (Lúcio does a fine job of making it difficult to look in any direction but toward the stage, which helps, in its own way) but, he keeps his guard up for a reason. When a low, insistent beep begins ringing in his ears, he casts a furtive glance around the room.

No one else reacts. The rest of the club remains focused exclusively on Lúcio’s performance, and he nearly sighs in relief. The alert can mean only one thing.

Genji tugs up his sleeve, checking the watch strapped around his wrist. He furrows his brow, eyes on the dragon emblazoned on its face, then slides a hand into his pocket for his phone. This time an urgent message from Zenyatta flashes on screen. Several bar-goers shoot him dirty looks as the light cuts through the club’s dim ambiance.

 _Disturbance outside!_ it reads, punctuated by a distressed emoji.

Good timing. Lúcio ends the current song with a flourish, and an enthusiastic round of applause begins.

Genji stands, discreetly pushing his seat back. He only briefly looks over his shoulder as he slinks out, checking for followers before ducking into the bathroom for privacy. Looking into the stalls confirms there’s no one but him to witness what he does next.

One button activates a second OS on his mobile device. Pressing his thumb to the scanner— a common-enough security feature in this day and age— verifies his identity. He raises his phone to his ear and extends his left arm, where the watch on his wrist has synchronized with the program running on his phone. Then—

Hesitation, as he catches the sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. Genji blinks.

Then he straightens, and turns his back to his reflection.

He reassumes the stance. At a gesture, a heavy, V-shaped buckle materializes at his navel; the stiff belt strap attached snakes securely around his waist. Genji inhales sharply, closes his empty hand into a fist, and draws it diagonally across his chest. “ _HEN_ _—_ _”_

The buckle warms, and begins to emit a bright green glow.

“— _SHIN!”_

A star-burst of light crystallizes over his watch, engulfing his body at the sternum before flooding across the rest of his body. The first wave materializes body armor in one lean, cascading layer, down and over his arms, his hands, his thighs, shins, and feet. The second wave brings the bulk: pauldrons, gauntlets, the articulated chest plate; greaves and boots, reinforced plating and bulletproof weave. His phone slots neatly into a pocket in his augmented belt as the familiar shadow of a visor falls over his face. The rest of the helm follows in another bright flare.

Last to arrive are the sheaths of his two heirloom swords, one short and one long at his back, and the bright white scarf around his neck. The blades themselves appear in his hands; his armor’s cybernetic lights flicker brazenly to life as he lifts the weapons with a flourish, sliding them neatly home.

“Sparrowhawk,” he declares, voice echoing hollowly off white tile. “Prepared to take flight.”

A message from Zenyatta flashes on his HUD: _May the Iris protect you_.

Genji eyes the door. The chorus of Lúcio’s current set still trickles softly past its poorly-fitted jambs. He regards it, the only exit; and then himself, in full uniform.

On the other side of the door, someone laughs.

A breeze ruffles the end of his scarf. He turns slowly toward the opposite end of the room, where one narrow, half-height window opens to to an alleyway behind the club.

* * *

Time passes quickly, Lúcio finds, when he’s got access to a piano.

The one at the club is a beautiful little thing, a spin on the classic grand: real mahogany, old-school faux-gut strings and hammers, but a more space-efficient body and digitally modulated innards. This piano will never need tuning. He runs up the scale in a lively staccato, and every new note rings in perfect harmony.

Two-thirds of the accompanying musicians had called out the night before. Without a keyboardist and bassist, he’d been left with only himself and the drummer. In the end he’d messaged the drummer too, telling her to take a night off, and left his trumpet in its case. Miguel’s trio is on contract, so there's nothing to worry about. Lúcio knows they’ll be paid.

Playing _solo, a piacere_ has always been more his style anyway.

He’s building up to a key change when the glare from several LED backlights draws his eye, at least three members of the audience talking in hushed tones with their tablemates, phones out. The one from earlier had been mildly disruptive, but forgivable; the dude had made a beeline for the restroom the moment that song had ended. Two at once wouldn't have been too bad either, even if still pretty damn rude. But three? Three isn't a coincidence. Three means something’s happening.

He ends the set as more screens than he can count light up the lounge. Snippets of chatter float up to the stage against the flow of acoustics, and Lúcio’s stopped from asking what's happening by a vibration from his own phone. He fishes it out of a pocket to check his alerts.

_Armed menace within 100 meters of your location!_

Yeah, that’ll do it.

There’s no disturbance that Lúcio can see so it must be outside, or in one of the surrounding buildings. Casually ignoring the ‘stay inside’ warning tacked on to the message, he slides out from his seat behind the piano as more and more patrons stand, milling around the lounge uneasily. No one seems willing to step outside. That’s probably for the best.

He slips the mic out of the stand that’s posed over the open body of the piano, and gives the mesh a test tap. A few heads turn at the dull _thud-thud_ and the following, _Is this thing on?_

“Hi,” he continues eventually, when he’s confident that feedback won’t interrupt him. “Excuse me. Yeah, it’s me again. Sorry to ruin the mood,” —he winces theatrically, joke implicated in the club’s nonexistent ambiance— “I know we’re all worried right now and we’ve all got places we’d rather be. But until we get another update, I’m gonna need everyone who’s still sitting down to just, stay sitting down. And everyone who got up, could you please find your tables again?”

Not enough people acknowledge his request. Even fewer actually move at all. He knows everyone can hear him; the speakers are built into the walls. Lúcio furrows his brow, fingers rubbing slowly at the line of his chin.

He leans in a moment later, and clears his throat into the mic.

“Guys, listen I _know_ we don’t have enough chairs. That’s not why we’re all here. It’s a club, people stand around to look cool, with your cool people drinks in your hand. I get it! That’s why I’m always sitting up here with the piano.” At that, several women closer to the stage pause their conversation— first to glance at him, then to share bemused looks with each other. He chuckles. “I mean, _I_ know I make sitting here look good. Please don’t sit up here though. Sit at your tables. Or stand, you know, if you’re cool.”

Hesitant laughter, a few visible scoffs. All toothless reactions; more importantly, it shows no one’s tensed up to the point of finding his humor inappropriate to the situation. He can work with that. An undercurrent of uncertainty in the audience still prevents his words from having the most effect, but he wouldn’t have become a performer if he didn’t know how to improvise.

Besides, he’s faced far less forgiving crowds before.

The club owner’s gaze catches his from across the room— he’s holding an old-fashioned landline receiver to his ear, listening intently to whoever’s on the other side. Lúcio raises his brows, then lowers them again when all he’s given is a nod.

 _Permission granted; permission received,_ he thinks, putting his mouth to the mic again.

“Hey, you dudes hanging around at the bar, could you keep the aisle clear for me— yeah just lean up against it, that’s great. You look great.” He gives them a pair of jaunty finger-guns. Several of them return the gesture. “Thanks!”

One of them gives him a thumbs-down. Aw. He flaps a dismissive hand at that, matching jest for jest.

On the far side of the lounge, a group of college students turn from looking out the street-view window, apprehension etched into their faces. Lúcio motions at them politely just as another person walks out of the bathroom. He turns to include her.

Which reminds him.

“Over here, please. Back up juuust a little bit. Gotta keep clear of the glass. And— watch your step,” he adds quickly, as people begin to brush up against each other. There really aren’t enough seats. “Get comfortable, we’re gonna be here a while. If you need to call or text someone, now’s the time ‘cause it’s phones and lights off in a few minutes.” Satisfied, he nods and announces, “I’ll be right back.”

One thumbs-up for the club owner later he slips the microphone back in its stand, and hops off the stage. Several employees are moving about the corners of the building, flicking switches and closing doors now that the customers are out of the way. By the time he reaches the bathroom, someone is waiting there to lock it.

“Give me a second,” Lúcio tells her, shouldering the door open. She shrugs and waves him inside.

To one side, a set of sinks and a mirror; on the other, four stalls. All of them are unlocked. He walks past three and stops with his hands on his hips at the last, head tilted in confusion, staring at the grab bars, the paper dispenser, the obviously vacant toilet seat.

On the wall opposite the door is a window for circulation. Lúcio peels his gloves from his hands and turns the latch on it. Clockwise to lock.

“That was fast,” the employee comments when he comes back out. The key fits into the slot in the handle with a muffled _click._

Lúcio looks back, from scanning the gathered customers for a green hoodie.

“No kidding,” he says, mostly to himself.

* * *

The low wall cordoning the club’s rear entrance from the main street is, luckily, a simple climb. Genji leaps for the building’s roof and clears the distance easily, rolling into a low crouch as he closes the distance to the street side. The commotion below has spilled out of the convenience store and onto the sidewalk: a skinny man in a moderately expensive-looking suit staggers on his feet, brandishing a knife. An alarmed (but thankfully, yet unharmed) shopkeeper flits at his side, attempting to de-escalate.

A crowd begins to gather. Customers trickle steadily out of the store and surrounding businesses. Onlooking passers-by slow, or even stop, clogging foot traffic to a crawl.

The man with the knife flails his arm, slashing wildly at a group of teenagers that’s drifted too close. His eyes are wide and glazed, his gait unsteady, blank confusion written in every movement. Genji vaults over the low edge of the roof, boosters on his back and legs popping to carry him over the heads of everyone gathered.

He drops right into the center of the fray with a sufficiently audible holler. The noise gives people pause, usually just long enough for him to avoid accidentally colliding with someone en-route to the scene.

It works; he sticks the landing and pushes off the ground in one smooth movement, braced on an extended hand and leg. The businessman turns in his direction. Genji directs his attention to the shopkeeper and nods. Given the opening, the poor employee backpedals into the relative safety of his store.

“Sir,” Genji addresses calmly, as much for the crowd for the man he’s facing. “Drop the knife.” He turns both palms forward, in an attempt to placate— and gets no cognizant response.

In fact, no response at all.

“Sir,” Genji repeats— steps closer as the man begins shambling toward another group of people— then lunges forward, to catch the stranger’s descending knife hand as he takes another swipe.

He puts some distance between them after blocking a few blows, a creeping unease in his gut. It doesn’t take long for him to identify what's wrong with this picture: this civilian shows no sign of ever having been formally trained (or having engaged in criminal activity) but he’s unexpectedly strong, enough that the probability he could grapple a regular person to the ground and commence stabbing is _worryingly_ high.

Another assault and still no attempt to flank him, a Rider in full armor. Genji sidesteps and blocks two more forceful lunges at his neck before he finally notices it: a small hole in the man’s lapel, glimpsed in the middle of attempting a disarming maneuver; and under that, a sliver of veiny, inflamed skin.

No time to do more than take note. Genji’s second unfortunate realization of the hour hits him: he can’t disengage. The man refuses to go down. Any attempt to peel away would put the bystanders at risk. Not only that, but the crowd is moving _closer_ , now that they think the situation is under control— and the shock has worn off enough for the bolder ones to remember the cameras on their phones.

No sirens, not even in the distance. When the police will arrive— or if they’ve been alerted at all— remains unknown.

Out of the corner of his eye Genji catches sight of the club he'd come out of, hears the clatter of the door swinging open — then he pivots away from a heavy fist aimed for his cheek, teeth gritted under his mouthpiece. There are footsteps. Someone walks out of the building.

Lúcio takes in the scene, eyes locking immediately on the lone Ranger.

He plunges forward— slow going at first, working his way in from the edge of the crowd. He sends some off with a quick, authoritative word and peels others away with a small push (physical and verbal, reminders such as ‘call the police’ and ‘someone go check on the store owner’) before the crowd thins enough for him to join the innermost ring of spectators.

“Stay back,” Genji warns, glancing over his shoulder when he hears a murmur rippling through the crowd.

The businessman rushes him.

There are people behind. Genji stands his ground.

Armor hits asphalt with an audible _crack_. The next sound he hears is the whiff of a blade as the man slashes uselessly at his cut-resistant uniform, then throws his weight behind his knife, driving it down and into the side of his helmet.

Genji closes both hands around the man’s wrist, trapping it before it can ascend with the weapon for another go at the spiderweb crack in his visor. Behind them both the ring of bodies breaks, crowd scattering as people retreat in a panic.

All except one. “Get _back!”_

The stalemate tips. A hard impact sends the man hurtling to one side. Genji rolls to his feet and sees Lúcio with his feet planted, chest heaving and vest askew. Palms out in a warning gesture.

The businessman picks himself up. There's a boot print on the outer side of one wrinkled suit sleeve.

“Don't touch that,” Lúcio barks, as someone reaches for the dropped knife. “Where's the police? Anyone get on that yet?”

A few people shout affirmatives. The remaining bystanders waver but keep well away, all eyes on the new challenger.

“So,” Lúcio says, blowing a slow, focusing breath past his lips. “I have an idea.”

Genji says nothing, breathing evenly, but slants his visor toward him.

Lúcio grins. “Sorry in advance though,” he continues, flashing Genji an apologetic raise of the brows as he backs up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I might catch you up in it too. Don't take it personally, Ranger.”

“Rider, _”_ Genji insists, but circles around, gauging height and distance and the fall of Lúcio’s steps. Eventually he stops, drawing the man’s attention to himself with another shout before diving forward. “ _SEI!_ ”

Engage. Block. A minor adjustment to his stance, and an uncoordinated blow glances off the surface of a gauntlet, leaving him free to counter the grab that follows.

Lúcio moves.

One, two, three, _one_ — and he's just within range. His leg swings up and around, momentum aiding a blow that lands much heavier and quicker than his size would suggest. One bare, steady hand pushes off the pavement as the kick completes its arc. The impact sends both Genji and assailant into a section of the store’s wall.

The ranger regains his balance, pauldrons scraping the rough brick behind him. The suited man is not so lucky.

Genji stays where he is, extracting a pair of handcuffs from his belt to toss to Lúcio when he hurriedly jogs up. At their feet the suited man groans— but does nothing to resist as Lúcio reaches for his wrists.

“The knife,” Genji asks of the closest spectator. The young woman points him to it; her friend has his foot over the blade, to prevent anyone else from making a grab. With the weapon secured (in a small bag for the police to collect, pulled from another compartment in his armor), Genji’s eyes land next on the little round hole he remembers had been in the businessman’s suit lapel.

As he looks on Lúcio pauses, then leans down, having noticed that particular injury for the first time. His brow furrows. “That looks,” he says as Genji crouches beside him, “an awful lot like a bullet hole.”

A bullet, but no bloodstain? Lúcio roughly turns the man over, running a palm over the back of his suit.

No exit wound.

“How the hell was he even walking around?” He looks to Genji, who simply meets his gaze for a long, pregnant beat before turning away to scan the rooftops.

Something else brings his attention back: a dark, roiling sphere rising out of the unconscious man’s chest, siphoning some sort of energy. It hovers just above his body, glowing in a black and purple cloud— Lúcio glances up from securing the restraints.

Then he looks back down again. Genji watches him test the cuffs for security and knows: Lúcio didn't see the orb at all.

His HUD can't make sense of it either. He snaps several photos anyway while multiple diagnostics run themselves to error, unsure if it would even show up on the image. Focused as he is, Genji completely misses the first time Lúcio asks his question.

He starts when a tentative hand brushes his elbow. “Sorry,” he murmurs, turning his head a degree in his direction, “could you repeat that?”

“I was just asking what I should call you,” says Lúcio, voice low. “Other than Cyborg Ninja or Green Ranger.”

His _Or Genji_ , is only implied, but it’s a nice thing to ask, all the same. “I go by Sparrowhawk,” Genji answers, distractedly; he refuses to take his eyes from the orb, the malicious energy emanating from it. A certain similarity strikes him— the shape, the energy, and the lingering attachment to its host are all startlingly similar to Zenyatta’s harmony orbs.

But his master’s orbs have never looked anything like _this._

Crowd dispersed, no one but an unconscious salaryman at their feet. Finally, too, there are sirens and flashing lights approaching. Lúcio stands, assuming the job is done; Genji reaches, fingers outstretched for the orb.

It shatters.

The crowd screams. Not at the orb, but the ricochet, the roar of the bullet that tore it through. To anyone else it appears as though the sniper missed.

“Get down!” Lúcio yells.

Curled protectively over Lúcio’s slighter frame, Genji watches the orb fracture and fall out of the air, energy dissipating like smoke— and whirls on his heel to follow the trajectory of the shot in infrared, knowing there won’t be another.

There. A lone figure. The rooftop of a ten-story, one of the tallest in the vicinity. There's nowhere for them to go but up.

Genji stands, then pauses.

Catching the wary look he gives the man they’d taken down, Lúcio touches the back of one hand to Genji’s upper arm, expression serious. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”

A nod. Police vehicles begin pouring into the street. Genji puts the bag with the knife on the ground for them to find.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Be safe out there,” Lúcio calls after him, as he disappears past the crowd.

* * *

Genji reaches the skyline in seconds, finding easy purchase on aged walls and windows. When he arrives at the sniper’s perch he finds no sign of recent disturbance— the flat top is littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts, no footprints or shell casings in the dust, no smudged debris on the rooftop wall. It’s painfully deliberate. If the person on this rooftop were just some innocent bystander, there would be no reason to leave so little trace.

He’s making one last round across the space when a glowing mine to his left that was _definitely not there a second ago_ explodes. A cloud of gas billows into his face. Taken off guard, he inhales— and immediately regrets it.

It stings, and then it burns. Somehow it seeps past his filters and into his throat, his airways locking up as whatever poison was in the mine clings to the inside of his mouth, his eyes and nose. Behind him: the telltale slide of a scope.

The reach for his wakizashi is automatic. Genji swings the blade up, shielding the base of his skull— every sniper’s preferred target.

His gamble pays off. A bullet pings off tempered, folded steel back in the direction of the shooter. There’s a soft exclamation of pain, then the clack of heels over concrete as his attacker retreats.

The burning leaves his lungs but a weakness settles into his limbs, leaving them heavy and sluggish. Retreat would probably be advisable, in this state— if his former teammates were around, they would have encouraged it. After all, there’d have been more than one person to give chase.

He returns his weapon to its sheath and stands. Genji turns in time to catch sight of the sniper landing in a deadly curl on the next rooftop over, the long line of a grappling wire snaking after her.

From the cover of an air conditioning unit, he flicks three shuriken out of the panel on his arm and closes his eyes to visualize the field: sniper on the next building, the new vantage point a good twenty meters away; plenty of cover for Rider and villain alike. Numerous escape routes for the latter, if he doesn’t move fast.

He’s always been fast.

A bullet dents the metal beside his head as he clears the end of the unit. Another one whiffs his helmet, triggering a burst of static as the shockwave scrambles the audio receptor on that side. He leaps, then activates his boosters— one set each on his back and legs, altering his fall speed twice in succession as he shoots across the gap between his roof and the sniper’s— drawing his wakizashi again as he goes, just in time to deflect an impossibly lucky shot into the alley below.

He lands soundlessly on the other side. Now well aware of his ability, the woman pulls her scope from her eye and turns tail, ducking behind a wide brick chimney.

An impasse, for now. Genji straghtens, his sword clicking neatly back into its sheath. He approaches, but gives the stack a wide berth, still wary of the mine he’d triggered earlier. As per his expectations there's another deployed near her leg, spotted as he rounds the structure with new shuriken in hand.

The sniper sees him. She raises her rifle.

It looks different.

 _Of_ course _it’s got assault fire too,_ Genji thinks, diving too late for cover as bullets spit out in a relentless hail.

One lodges itself in a pauldron; two graze his visor, cracking it further along an already weakened seam. Genji throws his stars blind, counting on proximity and probability to land at least one of them.

A wet _shnk_  of a razor-sharp edge meeting skin ends in a bitten-off snarl, telling him he’s succeeded— and while his helmet recalibrates its receptors Genji flings another round of shuriken toward the sound, pressing the advantage. Diving to his left, away from another round of fire, he draws his wakizashi one more time.

His helmet comes back online, aided audio and visuals returning with a staticky flicker. There’s a new set of fissures across the display. Not large enough to truly diminish his lines of sight, if distracting, but a square on his HUD locks onto the sniper— _finally_ — and Genji dives forward, blade extended as he body-checks her to the ground.

The edge of his sword feathers the skin of her neck, his weight suspended on the forearm barred across her collar.

“Who are you?” He leans harder, knees braced on the roof beside her hips. “What was that orb?”

For someone who is functionally incapacitated, she shows no sign of fear or surprise. Genji commits her face to memory— her blue skin, high cheekbones, yellow eyes— and considers that if she hadn’t just been trying to kill him, he’d find her quite beautiful.

She smirks. He tenses. Her eyes shift deliberately from him, his visor, to something over his shoulder.

Genji expects it— but unable to dodge, the foot that connects with his head sends him rolling across the flat top. The new enemy, shrouded in smoke, steps between them for the few seconds it takes for his ally to lever herself upright.

She stands to retrieve her gun, moving with an infuriating leisure.

“Two on one,” Genji quips, dead pixels distorting his vision as he plants a fist to the ground, his other hand hovering over his shoulder for Ryuu Ichimonji, “hardly seems fair.”

The matte-black cloak betrays a familiar silhouette; the owl-mask under its hood, even moreso. Whether or not Reaper remembers him, or even recognizes him in his new form, Genji can practically _taste_ the boredom radiating off the other man. Whatever Talon’s here for, they’ve clearly already accomplished it.

“Let’s go,” Reaper growls, turning on his heel.

The sniper smiles. It is no more than a baring of teeth. “ _Au revoir,_ ” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Next time I have you in my sights, it will be your last.”

An exasperated snarl. “ _Widowmaker_.”

She laughs lightly. “As you say.”

Genji bites back his retort. Around his katana’s hilt, the leather of his white glove creaks. He’s faced off against Reaper before and never once come away unscathed; every victory against the specter had been one with the team and even then they’d been narrow, not without cost. If Reaper is involved—

Talon won’t stop at an inept salaryman waving a knife around.

Ryuu Ichimonji hisses out of its sheath.

Reaper turns as if he’d been _waiting_ to. A nightmarish shotgun materializes in the hand he raises, barrel aimed squarely at Genji’s face. “I don’t think so.” Black smoke curls around his form, a vortex of ash rising from his feet. The column rises like a whirlwind flame, enveloping his body— and Reaper disappears, taking Widowmaker with him. The portal collapses behind.

Genji can only watch.

Silence descends, like a weight in his gut.

He lets his katana fall back into its sheath, his hand fall away from his back. Whatever relief he feels at having escaped the situation alive pales in light of the fact that Talon is behind it. His stomach churns at the idea of more terrorized civilians— the strategic advantage they have on him, one lone vigilante against an entire criminal organization—  the humiliation of having Widowmaker at his mercy but losing her to a moment of inattentiveness.

One thought cuts through it all: _Zenyatta needs to know._

The alley behind the club is still empty. He checks the entire surrounding block before dropping into it. If he listens closely, Lúcio’s voice carries over from the street opposite, recognizable at any distance. The investigation must still be underway if he’s telling the detectives what he’d witnessed.

Genji pulls his damaged helmet from his head, and disengages his armor. He sighs, dragging a dry palm down his face as he reorients himself; his hoodie and jeans are blessedly soft compared to the stiff cut of his uniform, loose enough that the fabric doesn’t agitate his various bruises. He walks to the end of the alley with his phone to his ear. A minute passes while several several groups of civilians walk by, until he finds one large enough to slip into, pretending to ask someone if it’s safe to return home as he falls into step behind them.

He stays with the gaggle of college students for a block. They’re too harangued to pull him into their lively debate but comfortable enough to let him hang close, as if he were part of the group. As they reach the intersection, he raises his hand in a casual goodbye, and pulls his hood over his head.

There’s a bruise just starting to mottle below his left eye. He drags the strings of the hood down, hoping bad lighting will continue to conceal what the fabric won’t.

Just as he rounds the corner, he hears it: the patter of someone jogging after him. He speeds his steps, trying to clear the next block before whoever it is catches up.

“Wait,” says— Lúcio, he realizes with a start. That’s Lúcio’s voice— freezing him in his tracks. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Genji doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe, praying his silence won’t betray him.

Lúcio stares at the stranger’s back. Maybe his hunch is wrong, and he’s just bothered a random guy.

But somehow, he thinks that isn't the case. “Hey, do we... know each other?”

Genji lifts his hand. His fingers move up and catch the hem of his hood again, pulling it back just enough to reveal his ears, to show that he’d heard the question. He shakes his head, slowly. _No_.

He tries to walk away.

Not a moment later, the sound of a second pair of footsteps joins the fall of his own. Lúcio closes the distance between them in five long strides, stopping less than a meter behind him. The hairs on the back of Genji’s neck rise. It couldn’t be—

He starts when Lúcio reaches for his arm, fingertips grazing his wrist.

“Genji?”

 

 

 


	2. In UR Base

Like he’d promised at the start of the season, Manager Kim takes the entire team out for barbecue. How he’d managed to do it no one really knows— but maybe he hadn’t been bluffing after all, when he’d assured them that the bonus for winning Grand Prize on the international scale would blow the top off whatever budget limits he’d been forced to work with for the past five years.

In any case, galbi always tastes better with bottomless alcohol.

Hana looks up from tending the meat just in time to catch the arrival of the first round of soju and beer; the waitress unloads the drinks and a stack of clean glasses on the table to a cheer, then picks up her tray, briefly placing a hand on Hana’s shoulder as she stands to leave. Hana beams at the congratulatory gesture.

Then she turns back to her team. “Drinks are here,” she announces, snagging a soju bottle to butt the bottom against her elbow. “DPS princess Hana Song will be pouring for everyone tonight!”

“There you go again,” Taejin groans, shaking his head, “with that ego of yours. Here, I guess I’m stuck helping you.”

Hana scoffs as she swirls the bottle, then opens it. “It’s not ego if it’s all true,” she drawls, but leans across the table to top the first glass with a flourish. “Manager first!”

Seven more servings follow, each poured with practiced speed: after the manager are the team captain, the manager’s assistant, several teammates and alternates, the team’s live-in chef and live-in housekeeper. Taejin reaches for the tongs while she’s busy, pushing cooked pieces of meat off the center of the domed grill plate at the center of their table; the next cup placed in front of Hana fills only halfway before the bottle goes empty.

“Hey,” laughs the teammate sitting across from Taejin, indicating his glass, “are you kidding me?”

“You’re a lightweight anyway, sunbae!” Hana wrinkles her nose, but relents, already twisting the cap off another soju. Kwon Mingyu had led the final push that won them the championship game; that play will be the only thing anyone in esports will be talking about for at _least_ the entire next season. He can afford to let loose.

He knows it, too. Mingyu’s jaw drops dramatically. “Are you really saying that to me? Today of all days?”

Another player pipes up— Yoo Nari, four seasons Hana’s senior. “Mine next.” She smirks, cheerfully placing her shotglass before Hana. “It’s not everyday our agency foots the bill for a place like this. Lucky that _some_ of us don’t pass out after one bottle.”

Mingyu makes an affronted noise. “Hey!”

“This unni, talking as if she can do so much better,” says the girl on Hana’s other side. Lee Mina, team sniper and tactician.

“What was that?” Nari challenges, raising her eyebrows.

“What was what?” Mina repeats innocently, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t say anything. Nari unni you’re so cool and amazing and talented,” she laughs as the other player leans toward her with a vaguely threatening air. Properly cowed, she turns to harangue her juniors. “Taejin, the meat— wait, Hana, you’re not done pouring yet? Go faster!”

“Yeah Hana, go faster!”

“Hey. Lee Taejin.” Hana smiles sweetly at the teammate that chimed in. “Order me around again and I’ll kill you.”

“What, why can’t I?” Taejin shoots back, now turning pieces of onion and garlic. “ I follow your orders in game all the time. It’s not fair, isn’t it? Tell her, noona!”

“You order each other around, you dweebs,” Mina snorts, motioning for the bottle. Hana hands it to her— and takes the shot she pours with both hands.

Just in time. At the far end of the table, Manager Kim clears his throat. “Alright, if we’re all ready, let’s have a toast before we begin. To our victory!”

“To our victory,” everyone repeats.

“And to the future of team MEKA. It’is my honor to have been with you all up to this point in our careers. Especially Kwon Mingyu, and Lee Mina— our senior members. After three years in the minor leagues, you’ve finally led your juniors to the Asia Championship title.” When all eyes turn to the players’ end of the table, Mingyu lets out a whoop amidst the roar of applause. Mina simply hides her face in one hand.

Hana laughs, elbowing her lightly, and makes her signature heart-hands over her chest.

“No one deserves this break more than you two. Next, we’ll conquer the World Championship,” Kim declares, raising his glass. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” they all declare, as one.

Mina downs her shot, then stands, batting at Hana’s arm. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

“Are you sick?” Hana frowns, glancing up and over her shoulder. Mina shakes her head.

“No, I just need a break. I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

At the end of dinner, Nari frowns, scanning around the dining room from the front entrance. “Where’s player one?” she asks, looking out the door.

“Huh?” Hana glances back at her, a lightly tipsy Taejin balanced precariously at her side. She follows Nari’s line of sight; the non-player members of their motley group have already filed out of the restaurant to flag a cab for an unconscious Mingyu. Manager Kim is giving the driver the address to the team house.

No Mina. Hana slips her phone out of her jacket pocket. No texts, either.

“Maybe she went to the bathroom again,” Nari guesses.

Hana sighs. “I’ll go check.”

Taejin yawns and stretches, lifting his arm from her shoulder when Hana ducks out from under it. “Hey, player two! Don’t take too long,” he calls as she toes her shoes off again and dashes away, “we’re going straight to the second round after this!”

Punching in Mina’s speed dial and confirming to call takes all of one second; five more seconds pass before she reaches the bathroom door. She tries the handle, and finds it’s unlocked. “Unni?” she calls out, shouldering her way in.

The bathroom lights flicker briefly on, activated by motion sensors— then promptly go out. Hana stops at the threshold, squinting first at the ceiling, then into the darkness. The dial tone at her ear ends with a verbal notice that the recipient’s voice mailbox is full. Her eyes dart to the mirror, where her silhouette is outlined by a narrow rectangle of light, streaming in through the doorframe.

The lights shouldn’t have flickered on if someone had already been inside.

“Did I miss her on the way back in?” Hana mutters, inordinately spooked. It must be that the bulbs burnt out; she’ll let someone know they need replacing before she and Mina leave. To her phone she orders, “Redial,” without removing it from her ear.

The dial tone returns. Barely half a ring in she hears it— a whisper of labored breathing, so soft it’s almost inaudible. Hana whirls back around, seeking the source. “Mina unni?”

Her phone’s flashlight works fine. She walks slowly, shining the light into each of the stalls she passes, until she reaches the second-to-last one. There’s someone slumped on the ground inside.

Hana’s phone clatters to the tile, forgotten as she rushes forward.

The call drops on the way down. The mailbox is still full.

“Unni?!”

* * *

 

“Genji?”

 _How?_ Genji thinks, still as stone where he stands. He says nothing, knowing his voice and accent alone are a dead giveaway— but Lúcio is already so certain of his identity that he’d chased after him _._ He’s still there, Genji knows; his fingers still ostensibly reaching out. And yet— despite the phantom prickle of the initial contact at his left wrist, the hard beat of his pulse pounding in his ears, the tentative hope he hears in Lúcio’s voice— he isn’t trapped.

He breathes out, slowly. He isn’t trapped. He could leave, right now.

Suddenly, Lúcio’s voice cuts through the tension— a soft chuckle, snapping the fragile string of silence. Genji registers the slightest displacement of air on the skin of his hand as the other man withdraws, letting his outstretched arm fall back to his own side.

Lúcio turns to go, shoes scuffing against the ground. “Sorry,” Genji hears him say, and the way the word rings tells him he’s smiling, apologetic; the way his tone dips tells him he’s backing off, accepting his long reluctance to speak as an answer in itself. “Maybe I’ve got the wrong guy.”

It’s an out, Genji recognizes. If he still chooses to deny his identity, Lúcio won’t push him, no matter how much conviction remains. The logical choice would be to take it. Safer, too, for both of them. But now for the first time, Genji seriously entertains lying to him— and after two close encounters, weeks upon weeks spent listening to him play, should it really surprise him that the very idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth?

“Maybe,” Genji echoes softly, making his decision.

Behind him, Lúcio stops dead in his tracks.

Then he inhales, whirling on his heel. He doesn’t bother wondering why Genji’d tried to leave unnoticed, or without a goodbye. “Did you find them?” he asks instead, taking a step forward— then no more, maintaining the little distance remaining between them, squashing the urge to ask him to turn around. His eyes travel silently across Genji’s back. The broad expanse of green cotton and polyester stretched across his shoulders.

Genji swallows. Feels his throat bob. “I found them,” he answers.

“Did you get ‘em?”

The answer almost physically pains him to say aloud. “They escaped.”

Lúcio makes a frustrated noise. Sympathetic. “Damn,” he sighs, but he runs his gaze over the other figure again, wracking his brains to recreate Genji’s walk, trying to remember whether or not he’d seen a limp, or any favored limbs. The Ranger’s civilian clothes are pristine, if a touch faded; no hints to be gleaned from those. “Are you hurt?”

Finally, Genji turns, and Lúcio’s eyes immediately jump to his face. There isn’t much that’s visible under the low hood but he can make out the curve of his nose, a strong jaw, the shadows that suggest his eyes. “We can’t talk here,” he says, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as they face each other— and the movement alters the fall of the dim streetlights just enough for Lúcio to see a dark patch on Genji’s skin, sitting high on one cheek.

“You look rough.” Lúcio grimaces, gesturing to his own face in obvious reference to the injury. “Got somewhere you can go for that?”

“Yes,” Genji replies. Then he pauses, lips pressing into a line. “I will be fine. But _you_ may be in danger, Lúcio. After what you did tonight, they will start to associate you with me.”

 _Who’s ‘they’?_ Lúcio wonders. _Plural or singular?_

To Genji, he shrugs, smiling grimly. “What, after only one team-up?” he scoffs, arms crossing in a loose knot over his chest. “I’m more concerned about that shopkeeper,” he grouses, meaningless chatter meant to reassure, “and the bystanders— seems nobody around here paid attention during basic Safety Drills 101.” At the sight of the furrow between Genji’s brows deepening, he stops. “You really think I’m in danger?” he asks quietly, acquiescing to the other’s anxiety.

Genji hesitates a long moment, then indicates with his head and shoulder the direction he intends to go. “Come with me,” he says.

Lúcio looks at him sharply. “What?” At the sober set of Genji’s mouth he starts, then stares, arms dropping to his sides. _We only met a week ago,_ he wants to say. “Where?” his traitorous lips ask instead.

“My base.”

“Your base,” he repeats; then articulates a beat later, with a touch less volume and significantly more incredulity, “Your _super secret ranger_ base?”

Genji’s turn to sigh: “ _Rider_ base _._ ”

“I mean,” Lúcio says, cracking a smile, glad to see that despite his apprehension Genji can muster some humor, “is that not gonna be a problem for you?”

“There is plenty of space. A few days won’t be a problem.”

A few days. He’ll have to make a call to Miguel, his agent. And the club owner, probably. They might try to find him at his usual place tomorrow morning. “My trumpet.” The one thing he can’t leave without. “Meet me back at the club?”

Genji nods once, and turns to go.

Fifteen minutes later— when Lúcio steps out the rear entrance of the venue, his instrument case in one hand and his hat in the other— there’s a motorcycle idling in the middle of the alley. The stranger leaning against it, wearing a solid white helmet with a chartreuse streak, offers Lúcio an identical spare as he approaches.

Lúcio trades it for his hat. At the very back of the motorcycle there’s a folded attachment, presumably for cargo; the trumpet goes there. Between it and the driver’s seat, there’s just enough room for a passenger. “I’m guessing this is…” Lúcio trails, eyeing one bold, jagged green decal.

When Genji gestures with his free hand, there’s only a trace of his usual exaggerated motion in the small, tired flourish. “My bike,” he confirms, voice muffled beneath his helmet. Strangely, it sounds more familiar that way.

It only takes a second for Lúcio to place the familiar white-and-green racer; he’d seen it parked on this street fairly often, even on nights he wasn’t playing. It recalls Genji’s hero form perfectly: every line sleek and compact, every molded curve and sweep suggesting a preoccupation with _speed_. It’s almost shameful that he hadn’t made the connection himself, considering how much of Genji’s personality seems baked right into the vehicle.

 _Or at least,_ he amends privately, _what I’ve seen of it so far._

Lúcio watches, then copies the way Genji swings his leg over the chassis. One smooth movement. “I can’t believe,” he laughs aloud, an incredulous grin breaking over his face, “this thing was yours all along. I should’ve known!”

The set of Genji’s shoulders shifts, still weighted with exhaustion; but at this angle, sitting snugly against his back, Lúcio can read even the briefest slip of sheepish amusement before it can fully disappear. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

An omnic rises from his alcove, a quiet message in his inbox preemptively alerting him to a Ranger’s return to base. Normally he would have waited until he had arrived proper to rouse— but normally, Rangers do not bring guests. By the time Genji steps out of the elevator, announcing his arrival, Zenyatta’s processors have been out of idle mode for a good thirty minutes.

“I’m back,” Genji calls, raising a hand. Trailing a short length behind him is another man, a stranger.

Lúcio’s steps slow as he enters the command center, head tilting back as he takes in the sight. He hasn’t yet voiced his questions about the base— how it’s far too large to fit under the shop, how there’s no way it wouldn’t spill into neighboring stores’ basements— just like how he hasn’t questioned why Genji’s still wearing his helmet indoors.

The base, it turns out, is fairly simple to find. It’s the location and the codes, the credentials needed to access the entry, and the terrifically unremarkable storefront cover that make it difficult to know where to begin looking. Lúcio gazes long at the holographs and displays projected in the center of the room and hopes Genji wasn’t expecting him not to be _intensely_ _curious_.

“Welcome back,” Zenyatta replies, inclining his head. “And,” he adds, rotating slowly in the air, “to our guest, welcome! For the first time.”

“Master, this is Lúcio,” Genji says, gesturing with an open palm. “Lúcio, this is Master Zenyatta.”

Lúcio tears his attention from the far wall, where a row of what looks like defunct arcade consoles sits. “Pleased to meet you,” he smiles, holding up a friendly hand— taking a page out of Genji’s book.

Zenyatta mirrors the gesture. “Just ‘Zenyatta’,” he says; “the pleasure is mine.” A pause, then the lights on his head blink, repeating a tempo that he’d heard dozens of times in sound. “Oh, you are...”

“The album,” Genji supplies helpfully, looking up as he peels his gloves from his hands. When he’s done, he lays them on the surface of the table.

He reaches for his helmet next.

“Your music is _very_ enjoyable,” Zenyatta tells Lúcio, enthusiasm clear in his voice. “I have listened to the songs many times. Thank you, for your gift.”

Lúcio raises his brows. “Really?” he says, looking askance at Genji— just in time to catch his expression, which morphs for one brief instant to look exquisitely, politely pained. Genji meets his gaze, blinks once, then turns away to straighten his hair. Lúcio turns back to Zenyatta with a wide, skewed smile. “Well, I’m flattered!”

Genji drags a palm down his face, remembering: the album had become the soundtrack to all life in the base for a full week, set on endless loop as Zenyatta pored over every note, investigating the use of each instrument in turn. Entertainment had always been in short supply on base. He sighs, dropping his helmet into its usual seat. “It seems you've made fans of both of us.”

“Yes. Genji was quite excited to hear your live performance,” Zenyatta continues, watching Lúcio dissect the holographic earth projection with his eyes as Genji moves for a storage unit, “but I did not expect him to invite you here. Pardon the mess.”

Even from across the room, Genji’s entire demeanor radiates betrayal. When he returns to their side with a set of toiletries, he starts, not expecting the grin on Lúcio’s face, the corners of Lúcio’s eyes crinkled in amusement, both directed unerringly toward him. He coughs, and hands over the set.

“Thanks,” Lúcio says, obviously pleased over more than the sight of a toothbrush. To Zenyatta: “Genji was really excited, huh?”

“For good reason!” Zenyatta replies.

“If you are hungry,” Genji interjects, somewhat stiffly, “there is pizza. I can show you to your room, if you would like to rest now.”

Lúcio, being a polite guest, decides to take mercy. “I’m a little hungry, yeah. And uh...”

“Yes?” Genji prompts.

Absently, Lúcio scratches his nose. “I didn’t bring any clothes.” He laughs softly, plucking at the lapel of his performance outfit. “It’s not a big deal for me, but it might be awkward for you.”

“We have some here,” Genji answers immediately, canting his head to indicate the hall leading out of the command center, “and I can take you to get the rest of your things tomorrow.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan.”

“Master.” Genji turns to Zenyatta. “We will be back.”

The omnic raises one hand, casual and serene. “I will activate the pizza machine.”

* * *

 

From his own closet Genji grabs a pair of basketball shorts and one— no, two t-shirts, one sleeved and one without. Things he hasn’t worn in years. “They may not fit,” he says, mildly apologetic as he hands them off to his guest, “but they should work for one night.”

Lúcio follows to another room across the corridor, an identical floorplan furnished with the same bed-desk-closet combo as Genji’s. There’s a small bathroom too, just as minimal as the rest, and a single, empty bookshelf. Curiously, the dorm is devoid of dust. Both the bed and its sheets are crisp, clean, and white; a folded blanket rests at the foot, two pillows sit stacked at the head. It looks like a place waiting to be occupied again, empty and sparse, but plenty of real estate for customization. The wall space alone could potentially house several dozen posters and pictures.

Lúcio shakes himself. He’s only here for a few nights, not moving in— it could do with a little personalization regardless, but long-term plans will have to wait until after his tour, if he wants a place of his own.

“If you need anything else,” Genji says, standing just in front of the open entry, “let us know. Thank you for coming.”

Lúcio shakes his head. “Nah, I should be thanking you for having me.” He casts a glance around the room, silent for the heartbeat it takes to take it all in, then raises the bundle of clothes in his hands, indicating the attached bathroom. “Think I’ll have time to shower before I gotta be back in the control center?”

“Yes, of course.”

He smiles, making a thoughtful noise as he sets his hat, and the gloves in his pocket, on the desk. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Take your time,” Genji replies— then pauses in the doorway when Lúcio turns back to him, lips parted around his next words.

“Your, uh.” He hesitates, then motions to his face. “Do you, need any help with that?”

Genji mirrors the gesture unconsciously, then realizes a beat late what he’s referring to. “Ah, yes.” Wait. “No. I am— I will, go to take care of it. Now. It’s fine.” Too late to salvage what he’s already said, he opts to end with, “Thank you.”

Lúcio waits until he's finished, and then a hair longer, just to be sure. “Yeah, uh. No problem. Just wanted to check, you know?”

“I know.” Belatedly, Genji nods. “Thank you.” He steps backward from the frame. “I will see you later.”

The door slides shut with a pneumatic hiss.

There’s a kitchen a little walk away down, with a refrigerator and an automated pizza machine (an older model than the ones in the shop upstairs). Before Genji can even open his mouth— to debrief Zenyatta on the situation and warn him of Talon’s return— the omnic speaks first.

“Genji,” he says, as much reprimand as reminder, “you are injured.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Genji deflects, failing to suppress a wince.

“Allow me?”

He approaches without complaint, holding carefully still as Zenyatta prods gently at the bruise on his cheek. Eventually the omnic sighs and makes a short gesture, as if pushing something toward his chest, and a delicate warmth suffuses into his bones at the same moment a bright, golden light materializes over his shoulder.

Zenyatta draws back as his orb takes hold, his voice growing more concerned as the extent of Genji’s injuries become apparent. The armor hadn’t allowed any bullets to pierce his skin— but it could only absorb so much of the impact, and the bruises all over his body are still painful evidence. “How is your shoulder? Your ribs?”

“Better,” Genji reassures him, holding back a sigh of relief. He pulls up the hem of his hoodie to inspect the yellowing contusion on his lower torso, smiling tiredly. “Thanks to you, master.”

“Genji.”

“If I experience complications, I will let you know immediately.” The counters here have always been the perfect height. Genji hops lightly to seat himself next to the sink, hands folded in his lap, and cants his head toward the pizza machine. “Is it ready?”

A note of disapproval clings to Zenyatta’s voice, but he’s familiar enough with Genji’s evasiveness to allow the change in topic. “The dough is proofing,” he says, indicating three lumps of dough illuminated through a glass window. Sauce churns in another compartment, the smell of tomatoes and garlic wafting pleasantly through the room.

Genji swings his feet— more habit than distraction as he watches Zenyatta putter around the kitchen for a plate, fork and knife. Eventually he slides off the counter to rinse out a cup, then dries it and sets it on the table next to Zenyatta’s carefully placed cutlery.

“Talon has returned,” he begins conversationally, brushing a single mote of dust from the edge of the plate.

That doesn’t seem to surprise Zenyatta, who sets a handful of napkins beside the fork. “I see.”

“Reaper,” Genji continues, leaning heavily against the table, “and a sniper called Widowmaker. I have uploaded the footage.”

“Thank you, Genji.”

Taking out his phone, Genji tabs to the archive of photos he’d taken while in armor and flips to the pictures he’d snapped. As expected, there’s nothing visible where there should be an unfamiliar mass of energy— only empty space, the unconscious businessman, and the hole in his suit. Lúcio’s back and shoulder is just within frame in one shot. A blur of his arm is in the corner of another. “There was also an orb. Like yours, but it did not invoke harmony.”

Zenyatta allows a long moment to pass. The luminous orbs around his shoulders still.

“Discord,” he suggests, at last, his head turning to the sphere still hovering over Genji’s shoulder.

“Yes. This man, in the photos. He had a bullet hole in his suit, but no injuries.” A pause. “Other than the ones Lúcio and I inflicted.”

“I see,” Zenyatta says again. “This _is_ a problem.”

“One I can resolve?”

“Not alone.”

“I have you,” answers Genji, mouth pulling into a crooked grin.

Zenyatta’s head tilts, his shoulders straightening back. Genji’s cheeky humor is always infectious; his confidence, however, less so. “That was not what I meant,” he sighs, pressing the pads of his fingers together, though there’s no reproach in the words or the action.

Genji looks away, arms crossing over his chest. “If we could assemble a team,” he murmurs, “we would have done it by now. But if I can just find Hanzo…”

“I do not think he wants to be found.”

“He’s my _brother_.”

“Genji,” Zenyatta starts— then cuts himself off, as Lúcio comes into view just around the corner. “The pizza is almost ready,” he says instead in a much lighter pitch, prompting Genji to straighten. “You are just in time.”

Lúcio enters the kitchen, absently tightening the drawstring of the oversized shorts. “I was wondering where you guys were! I could smell the food from all the way in the room.” His eyes light up as he approaches, rounding the table and island so he can peer through the pizza machine’s viewing window, where a pie turns slowly in the final chamber. The crust is browned and puffed, and a soft layer of cheese bubbles away. “Looks perfect,” he comments. “Smells great, too.”

Schooling his expression, Genji turns and hooks his ankle around a chair leg, dragging it out just as a finished pizza rolls out on a conveyor belt— and then another one, and then another, until there are three whole pies gently steaming on the end of the machine. One plain, one pepperoni, one covered in peppers and mushrooms.

“That,” says Lúcio, plunking himself down on the offered seat, “is a lot of pizza.”

“We were not sure what toppings you prefer,” Genji answers, determinedly watching Zenyatta plate the pies and set them on the table in front of their guest before sneaking a glance at him, “or if you have allergies.”

“Not to pizza,” Lúcio confirms brightly, catching his gaze. He looks away first— from Genji to the pizza, the pizza to Zenyatta, Zenyatta’s visible circle of orbs back to Genji. “No more bruise,” he notes.

“No more bruise.” Genji allows himself to return Lúcio’s smile, then busies himself next with fetching something to drink.

Zenyatta says nothing, observing the exchange. His orbs, and the invisible one at Genji’s shoulder, spin idly in tandem as he floats to Lúcio’s side. “You must be hungry, Lúcio,” he says, gently drawing his attention back to the table. “Please, help yourself.”

“Oh, right. Don't mind if I do!” Lúcio reaches first for a plain slice, but pauses when he notices his is the only plate at the table. “Wait, are you not— I mean,” he amends, “is Genji not eating? This is way too much for one person?”

Genji only smiles when they turn to him. “No, thank you.” He places his haul on the table: a single-serve protein supplement and a liter of some carbonated drink. “If I have to eat any more pizza,” he says, uncapping both, “I will be sick.”

“Aha.” Lúcio watches Genji pour him a glass of grape soda, then take a long drink from the other, smaller bottle. It doesn’t look nearly as appetizing as a freshly-baked pizza; but then again, Lúcio’s never lived in the basement of a pizzeria. “Makes sense. You must be here all the time.”

Genji hums an acknowledgement around a mouthful of supplement, sharing a meaningful glance with Zenyatta before he sets the bottle down, swallows, and sits. “It’s late,” he says, watching a yawn interrupt Lúcio’s attempt to drain the glass of soda in one long pull. “We can debrief tomorrow, when we are all rested. What do you think, master?”

“An excellent plan, Genji. If it is not too much trouble, I will leave putting the leftovers away to you. There is a matter I would like to attend to.”

“Of course,” Genji says, at the same time Lúcio quips, “Sure thing!”

Zenyatta folds his hands together. “Wonderful! I will be in the command center until morning,” he informs them both, cheerfully taking his leave. “Goodnight, Genji, Lúcio.”

* * *

 

“Good morning!” Hana sing-songs, cheerfully opening the door to the inpatient room— and freezes immediately at the sight of two unfamiliar faces. “Oh, shoot,” she squeaks, immediately lowering her voice. “I’m sorry!”

From the far side of the 4-person room, Mina regards the sight of her teammate with apparent horror. “What are you doing? This is a hospital,” she half hisses, half laughs, glancing at the other patients— there’s a boy in his teens who’s clearly recognized Hana, and an older lady on an IV that thankfully seems to find the disturbance more amusing than annoying. “I’m so sorry,” she tells them anyway.

The boy goes back to his phone; the lady simply goes back to dozing off.

“Ooh, lucky,” Nari comments, striding up as Hana displays the appropriate amount of chagrin (and flashes a v-sign at the kid when he can’t help but glance up again), “You’re right next to the window.” She tugs the curtain aside; the glass panes open three stories above a smaller, pedestrian-only street tucked between the block’s other high-rise buildings, but the endless bustle of Busan’s busy roads is still faintly audible, if not immediately visible. In the sky, there isn't a cloud in sight. Terrible weather to be stuck indoors. “Hey, this is a way nicer view than the one from our room! Can I stay here too?”

Mina smiles weakly from where she’s propped up on a pile of pillows, an e-reader laying forgotten on her blanketed lap. She moves it aside for Hana, who forgoes the chair by the foot of the bed to perch directly on the mattress. “Wanna take my meds for me while you’re at it? Put that curtain back, I can’t even look outside,” she groans. “My head still hurts so much.”

With a tut, Nari lets the curtain fall back into place. Hana offers her the chair, and she takes it, pulling it to rest an angle so the three girls are facing each other. “You have the worst luck, Mina. A concussion from hitting your head on a toilet seat…”

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of me while you can,” her teammate laughs. Then gasps, at the sight of the containers of banana milk Hana pulls from a reusable grocery bag. It’s got MEKA’s logo on the side; the company’s one of their sponsors.

Hana stabs a straw into the lid of one, and sets it firmly between Mina’s hands before preparing identical drinks for Nari and herself. She walks one over to the boy, too, who hides his starstruck awe badly. The elderly lady is fast asleep.

“How long until you’re out?” she asks Nari, glancing at her bedside table as she returns to the group. There’s a small collection of gifts crowded on its surface: a large bouquet from their reliable manager, several get-well cards and small gifts— distractions from the monotony of hospitalization— from the few teammates and peers who’d visited earlier that day. There’s an abandoned tray of lunch on a wheeled cart just nearby. Rice and seaweed soup, a small fried fish, several mild sides and a glass of water.

Barely any of it’s been touched.

She looks back just as Mina purses her lips. “A couple more days, maybe. They want to make sure there aren’t any complications. Anyway, what are you both doing here? Especially you, you diva.” Ignoring Hana’s exaggerated, offended expression, she goes on, “I thought you had a fan event?”

“That’s later on. I have time,” Hana replies, dismissively. It’s not entirely a lie; she does have time, but what she doesn’t mention is that she’d asked the event runners to push it back an hour so she could detour to the hospital. Her fans will understand. She watches Mina’s banana milk disappear up her straw, and pointedly addresses the tray. ”Was that your lunch?”

Nari looks over as well, halfway through her own container, eyebrows raised. “Whoa. Lee Mina’s insatiable appetite, foiled two days in a row? You usually inhale soup and rice on the spot.”

Caught out, Mina laughs, but follows their gaze with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “It’s just the nausea, you guys. Don’t read into it too much.”

“Does your nausea make an exception for banana milk?” Nari jokes.

“I have,” says Mina matter-of-factly, “a separate stomach for banana milk specifically.”

Wordlessly, Hana hands her another.

Nari hums, and drains the rest of hers. “It’s gonna be a problem if you have trouble eating, on top of everything else. You should let one of the nurses know.”

“Yeah, unni, you gotta get discharged soon. We miss you.” Returning Mina’s smile with a grin, Hana adds, “What’s MEKA gonna do without our tactician? You gotta stay in shape for next season!”

It was the wrong thing to say. She realizes it too late, watching as the other girl’s expression briefly shutters. It doesn’t last long enough that it couldn’t be chalked up to exhaustion, but that it happened at all makes her want to kick herself.

“I’ll tell someone if I don’t feel better by dinner,” Mina promises, after a short, strained pause.

Hana hesitates, at the mercy of the silence that ensues.

“What’s with that tone?” Nari cuts in, to her relief— bluntly ignoring Mina’s attempt to bypass the subject as she sits up in her chair, elbows propped on the armrests. “Hey. Don’t forget, you’re in the hospital for a freaking concussion. If your head ever feels like it’s getting too full, tell a doctor.” She smirks. “Or just text me to let it out. I’ll agree with everything you say, like a good friend.”

Mina snorts. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

There’s something to be said about having older teammates to depend on— even for little things, like this. “Sorry I brought up work,” Hana tells Mina, piggybacking on Nari’s initiative. She opens her mouth to say more, but the sound of her cell vibrating interrupts her.

The worst possible timing; her hour is up. Hana pulls her phone reluctantly from her backpack. Her teammates watch her grimace visibly at the screen. When she looks up, they pin her with identical looks, each with a single eyebrow raised.

“She’s late, isn’t she,” Mina observes, pitying, at the same time Nari blithely agrees.

“She’s totally late. You’re late!”

“I’m not!” Hana denies, but gets up anyway. Motioning for the empty banana milk cartons and straw wrappers, she asks, “I’ll visit again later, so do you want me to bring anything on the way back?”

“My dignity,” demands Mina.

“Your what?” she snipes back, just as quickly. Nari dissolves into a fit of laughter as Hana deadpans, “Pick something that actually exists, unni, I can’t bring back imaginary stuff. Actually, just text me when you think of something.”

“I can’t, I lost my phone.”

“What?” Hana dismisses another call from the event planners with a hurried swipe of her fingers, knowing she’ll be paying for it later in time spent being lectured. “Well, okay, but, what are you allowed to eat? Can you have ice cream? Soondae? Hamburgers? I can go to the fish market too,” she offers, emphatically.

“That’s closed today,” the teenager across the room interjects.

Hana sticks her tongue out at him, making a note to herself to bring something back for the rascal too. Maybe something they can sign for him, if he’s a fan of MEKA. “I’ll get up early tomorrow morning, then.” Fish from the market would definitely make a dent in her bank account… but expensive food is for eating together.

Outside, she glimpses clouds. Summer monsoon, fast approaching. She can almost taste the rain in the breeze that trickles past the open window.

“She’s listing all of your favorites,” Nari observes aloud. “She really means it, Mina.”

“What am I, a terminal patient? I can go three days on hospital food,” Mina rebuffs, “I’m not dying.” At the same time Hana feels her ears going red she can also see the other girl isn’t holding back her laughter. “Get out of here.”

Nari hands her the pink polka-dot grocery bag she’d brought with them when she returns from depositing everything in the room’s recycling containers. Most of the pastries and snacks she’d meant to share with the drinks are still inside, untouched. “Don’t forget to eat too, I know you didn’t have lunch at the team house.” She watches as Hana shoulders the bag, and adds, “Also, when you’re done with the event, text my number. Since Mina’s phoneless.”

Mina sighs. “I have an app for finding it. It’s probably just back at the restaurant.”

“Bet you dropped it in the toilet,” Hana snickers, then dashes out the door before she can hear the reaction.

* * *

 

A musical ping issues from somewhere to the left of Lúcio’s head, startling him awake. Recognizing the note, he groans and rolls over, hand groping for his phone on the edge of the bedside table. Through a bleary squint he can make out the most recent string of messages:

 _ > Lúcio, cê tá bem? Just saw the news _  
_ > Lúcio? _  
_ > Lúcio _  
_ > Lúcioo _  
_ > answer _ _  
_ > _Lúcio?_

Miguel— and his impatience, spaced out over the course of several hours. The very first text dates all the way back to late last night. Very slowly, Lúcio taps out a reply one-handed.

_ > coé oq rolou?? toh bem _

A brief glance at the rest of his notifications, all mostly emails and miscellaneous reminders; he dismisses all of them at once, slapping the device face-down on the mattress and immediately rolling away.

Just before he slips into unconsciousness, he wonders briefly at the high stone ceiling, the sparseness of the room he’s in; the calm, unfamiliar silence.

 _Oh, right,_ he thinks, burying his nose further into his pillow. _I’m in the base._ He sighs, and relaxes into the sheets.

Then his eyes fly open.

 _Oh, right,_ Lúcio remembers, gasping, shooting bolt upright on the bed, _I’m in the base!_

More pings from his phone.

 _ > oq vc tá dizendo “oq rolou” _  
_ > were you just sleeping this whole time? _  
> _kd vc kkkkkk em casa? kkkk i’ll kick ur ass_

Lúcio blinks once, slowly. “Shit,” he murmurs, realization dawning— he hadn’t made those calls before falling asleep. Significantly more awake in light of the misunderstanding, he sends back:

 _ > foi mal, eu esqueci _ _  
_ _ > stayed over w a friend rs _

_ > parabens _  
_ > is that why u n reply earlier _  
_> ur friend must be very distracting. risos_

 _ > kkkkk not that kind of friend! _  
_ > lot happened last night, sorry _ _  
_ > _tudo bem?_

 _ > bem _ _  
_ _ > next show when? _

_ > friday _ _  
_ _ > i’ll keep u updated _

_ > blz _

It’s easy to swing his legs off the edge of the bed, the soles of his aluminum feet just grazing the cool, tiled floor. It only takes a second to orient himself, then another second to stand, before he can shuffle into the bathroom to palm at the wall for the light switch. Standing in front of the sink, he beholds his reflection.

His body wants to move slowly, aching from the previous day’s exertion, but doesn’t throb or fight him when he stretches out to yawn. Hungry, but not starving, he notes, rolling his neck; all in all, a decent state of body. Self-inspection finished, Lúcio slumps— and scratches at his ear, where a few centimeters of his hairline have come free from the long-sleeved shirt he’d used to cover it for the night.

Genji’s, he remembers, of the shirt. Shirts. He’s wearing the other one, and the shorts. They’re all a size and a half too big.

Lúcio pulls at the collar, smiling distractedly at the faded heather, the tacky graphic printed on its front, the memory of a flustered, helmet-haired Genji— then abruptly drops his face into the same hand.

“Damn,” he groans, laughing at himself, “what the hell am I doing? Oh, just staying at a secret base with someone I met a week ago. Staying at a secret Ranger base with a Ranger I met a week ago, just because he _asked._ ” He stares accusingly at the mirror, fingers sliding off his eyelids.

It’s not the _most_ impulsive thing he’s ever done, he concedes to himself. At least now he knows what Genji looks like.

“Not that kind of friend,” he mutters, reaching for the faucet. He washes quickly— willing the cool water to leech away the heat that stubbornly refuses to leave his face.

When he walks out of the hallway and into the command center proper (a little mismatched in a tee and slacks), Genji and Zenyatta are already there. The omnic holds his hands palms-down on the surface of a raised control panel, his lights thrumming with the myriad of images flashing across the screen in front of them. Beside him, Genji is a small mountain— back straight as a pin, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on the display. Immovable.

“No sign,” Lúcio hears Zenyatta observe, as what appears to be the end of the series of photos they’re inspecting comes onscreen. “Perhaps the next time.”

“Yes,” Genji concedes. “As of now, he is no longer in New York.”

His eyes land immediately on Genji’s hair. Without the helmet to train it flat against his skull, the locks have returned to their normal volume; most of it is swept back, up and out of his face, save a stray few strands that hang loose at the forehead. It’s either an incredibly lucky arrangement of bedhead, Lúcio thinks, or the most meticulous replication of one he’s ever seen.

He clears his throat, waiting for the others to look at him before he gives them a small wave. “Morning!” he says. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No,” Genji says, turning to greet him as Zenyatta removes his hands from the panel. He pauses, taking in the sight of the other man, and then smiles. “Good morning, Lúcio.”

Behind him, the display flickers off. “How was your rest?” Zenyatta asks, drifting away from the center of the room.

“Pretty good, actually?” It’s not easy to get a good night’s sleep in the heart of Manhattan, with its endless parades of cars and people partying well into the morning hours. He’s used to that, though— so the base’s silence had unnerved him at first, but in hindsight it’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s been able to go an entire night without waking even once. “Thanks again for letting me stay!”

If he’d ever had doubts that an immovable face could appear so pleased, Zenyatta puts them all to rest. “It is no problem at all,” the omnic replies.

Genji moves for the hallway, his steps almost completely inaudible as he walks. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” he says, pausing just long enough to see Lúcio begin to follow before continuing on to the kitchen.

He throws a glance at Zenyatta, who simply inclines his head. “I will join you both shortly. Excuse me.”

“So, what’s for breakfast?” Lúcio asks, as he and Genji clear the mouth of the corridor.

“Garlic knots, unless you would prefer more pizza.”

“Nah.” He puts on a burst of speed, jogging up to Genji’s side. “That sounds great. You guys get a lot of mileage out of that machine, huh? Mind catching me up while we eat?”

Genji stops at the open entrance, and waves Lúcio through before going in himself. “That was the idea,” he says.

They arrive in the kitchen just as the pizza machine spits out a plate of garlic knots— scraps of pizza dough tied, baked, then tossed in garlic and cheese— and a small bowl of marinara sauce. Genji sets both on the table along with a plate of salad from the fridge, and indicates with a tilt of his head that Lúcio should sit before joining him at the table.

He describes last night’s encounter with Talon in broad strokes as Lúcio eats. When half the knots are gone and the salad entirely devoured, he delves more into their history. Talon, a high-profile criminal organization; Reaper, an operative he had met and battled many times before; Widowmaker, a newcomer. A fresh face to the old nemesis that had troubled his former team— a group of Rangers who had joined forces to protect innocent civilians, first from a massive omnic threat, then from villainy in general.

“So,” drawls Lúcio, raising his glass to sip at his orange juice, “did you guys have a name?”

“Yes,” answers Genji. He pauses, then continues, “we were the Over-Watchers.”

Lúcio chokes on his drink. Orange juice drips down his goatee and onto his shirt before he can stop it, and Genji starts out of his seat. He stills when he sees Lúcio raise a hand, shaking his head. “Lúcio?”

“Did I just,” Lúcio wheezes, pounding on his chest as he coughs, “hear you say that right? _The_ Over-Watchers? This is the Over-Watcher base? Sorry about your shirt,” he adds, grimacing.

“It’s an old shirt.” After handing him a napkin, Genji sits back down. “And for now,” he murmurs, a wry quirk to his lips, “it is just the Sparrowhawk base.”

“Oh.” Five years ago, the team’s disbanding had been high-profile news for weeks on end after the explosion that rocked their Swiss base just outside of Bern. Half the Over-Watchers had reportedly died in it, and the rest had gone missing in the weeks following. Lúcio tilts his glass, balancing it along the edge of its bottom rim for a second before letting it gently back down. “Were you the Green Ranger then, too?”

Nothing in Genji’s face suggests that he’s any older than Lúcio— but his expression changes that, years piling on in the split second his eyes grow distant and pained. Before Lúcio can comment, he shakes himself out of it. “Dragon of the North Wind,” he says, flashing him a roguish smile and the watch on his wrist, “Over-Watcher Green.”

Lúcio takes the time to look suitably impressed before furrowing his brow. “I heard you died,” he says cautiously, brushing salt and olive oil off his fingers.

Genji hands him another napkin. “I nearly did.” His gaze drops to the table in front of him, where his fingers clasp, one thumb worrying at the other. “Our Gold saved my life, and my brother’s as well. But doing so depleted her reserves of power, and she retired.”

So _many_ questions. “Is that who you’re looking for? Your brother?”

“Yes.” Genji abruptly leans away from the table, arms crossing over his chest as he tilts his seat back. “Talon has been dormant for years,” he says, head canting to the side as he expertly tips his chair to balance on a single leg, “but they are becoming active again. After the Over-Watchers disbanded, there are no longer any teams who can properly deal with them. My master and I can try, but there isn’t much we can do with only the two of us.”

As he talks, Lúcio polishes off the last of the garlic knots. “How about three?” he asks when he’s done, sitting back in his seat.

Genji’s chair tips forward, landing on all four legs with a muted _clunk_. “Three?” the Ranger repeats, confused.

Lúcio drinks the rest of his juice. Then he places his used napkins beside the empty, stacked plates. “If you don’t mind me lending a hand,” he begins, “I think I can help. I’ve got contacts all over the place, my network’s pretty secure, and I’ve got some experience with recon and stealth ops. Maybe not Over-Watcher level, but…” He shrugs with one shoulder, and grins. “We could team up for real this time.”

Genji, Lúcio thinks as he watches the man frown, clearly wasn’t expecting this. His response is careful, slow and measured; trying to dissuade. “It’s too dangerous. I appreciate your offer, but you do not understand the kind of people Talon are.”

“But _you_ do,” Lúcio points out, patiently brushing aside the concern for his safety, the attempt to talk him out of his decision. It’s flattering— genuinely— but unnecessary. “So, help me understand. You know I can handle myself.”

“You can handle yourself against ordinary people,” Genji counters, more quickly this time as begins to forget hesitation in his agitation. “Lúcio. Talon has many resources. It would be safer for you to stay out of their sight.”

“Genji,” Lúcio returns, flatly, “you said they might come after me anyway.”

Genji’s practically half-standing in his seat. “Yes, I see your logic, but—”

“I believe,” Zenyatta cuts in, gently reeling Genji in with a touch to his elbow, “Lúcio is volunteering to be a Ranger.”

Maybe he should be more concerned about how easily the omnic had arrived without either of them noticing— but Lúcio finds himself too busy trying not to laugh at the speed with which Genji’s head whips around, the wide-eyed shock plain on his face not _all_ there just because of the unexpected interruption. “Master!”

“Am I correct?” Zenyatta asks, of Lúcio.

“Yeah,” Lúcio confirms, when Genji fixes that disbelief on him next. “That’s what I meant. I volunteer as tribute.”

Genji’s mouth works, soundlessly. He looks to Zenyatta again. _Can he do that?_ the look in his eyes says. _Can we do that?_

“The process of becoming a Ranger,” Zenyatta says, his voice a touch amused, “is sometimes quite dangerous. When a candidate has been chosen, I prepare an orb to be claimed. If the fusion and the resulting transformation are successful, the individual will become a Ranger. A distinction that rewards great power.”

“There are conditions,” Genji adds, resolutely.

“Yes. Conviction.” Zenyatta regards the clear-eyed calm on Lúcio’s face with a surprising steadfastness of his own. “The spirit of someone in doubt will naturally reject the orb. Only the truly extraordinary have been able to become Rangers.”

Lúcio nods. “I understand. I want to give it a shot.”

“You mentioned you have fought alongside each other already. I trust your judgment, Genji. Do you have any objections?”

Genji returns Lúcio’s open expression with a contemplative, but still-troubled air. “I… don’t think Lúcio will have a problem,” he reluctantly admits, recalling all too easily Lúcio’s calm in the face of danger, his ability to maneuver a crowd, his willingness to leap to his defense— literally. Conscientious and charismatic, not to mention a more-than-passing knowledge of defensive combat to build on… he would be anyone’s first choice for a Ranger. “You _are_ a strong candidate,” Genji has to tell him, honestly. “And Master Zenyatta has the energy to produce an orb.”

That’s not what had been asked, though Lúcio appears to appreciate the validation. Zenyatta repeats his question. “Do you have any objections, Genji? You are the only remaining Ranger. The decision is as much yours as mine.”

The smile that Genji allows to cross his lips is just shy of brittle. “If we are reforming the Rangers in earnest, I hope someone will take that mantle from me.” That said, however, there’s hardly any hesitation before he makes his choice. He knows what the right one is, like it or not. “No,” he answers, resigned— but firm. “I have no objections.”

Lúcio looks between them until Genji catches his eye, reassuringly. “So,” he says, a slow grin spreading hesitantly over his face, “we can do this, right?”

“This is not a decision to make lightly,” Zenyatta warns.

Lúcio stands. His chair rattles against the floor as he pushes away from the table. “I want to help people,” he states, simply. “I know I can do it with my music, and I can do it with you guys too. That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

No. The silence that briefly descends over the kitchen is unanimous.

It’s decided.

“I will prepare an orb.” Zenyatta folds his hands into his lap. “It will take several hours, but the process itself is quite simple.”

Now also on his feet, Genji bumps his seat back under the table and picks up Lúcio’s used paper plates. He waves off an attempt to help clean, and indicates the command center with a tilt of his head. “In the meantime,” he says with a hesitant smile, “we can retrieve your belongings.”

Later, changed back into his white shirt and slacks, Lúcio joins Genji in the main area. The Ranger’s already pulled on his gloves and equipped his helmet, waiting with a pizza box (bagged in its heat-retaining cover) in his hands. He checks a dial beside the door they’d first entered through, then motions for Lúcio to follow him.

They re-emerge in the pizzeria’s kitchen, several machines hard at work mixing and rolling dough in the hour before the shop opens. Still others are making sauce and even more are processing cheese and cutting vegetables to serve as toppings. “No one works here?” Lúcio asks, watching a heaping mound of basil disappear into a vat of tomato puree. “How do people get their food?”

“Self-serve,” answers Genji, “and they order through touchscreens at the counter.”

“Oh.”

“I also,” he adds, a touch sheepishly, “technically work here.”

“Yeah?”

“Maintenance,” he explains. “And deliveries.”

Lúcio reluctantly follows Genji to the loading dock, no time to properly investigate Shambali Pizza before the Ranger’s already gearing up to leave. Genji extends the spare helmet, waiting on Lúcio to clip it in place before he straps in the pizza box and mounts his bike. He waits for Lúcio to hop on behind him, then peels out of the garage, taking them back to the place they’d had their first encounter. Once there, Lúcio gives him directions to the apartment building he’d been staying in.

“Call me when you are finished,” Genji says upon arrival, his heel tapping erratically against the peg of his sportbike.

Lúcio returns the spare helmet and raises a hand to see him off. “Yeah,” he says, “thanks for the lift!”

* * *

 

Genji detours to a small flower shop about half a mile away from the hospital, pulling up in the alley behind it. He hefts his bag, checking the weight of the pizza shifting around inside it, and strides to the front door. A happy chime and the fragrance of freshly-cut flowers greets him, the massive figure behind the counter at the other end of the store turning gingerly in place so as not to knock a vase on his counter onto the floor.

The sight of a gorilla tending register at a flower shop would prompt most people to turn on their heel and walk right out, but Genji flips up the face shield of his helmet, extending his free hand as he approaches the counter and bumps a proffered fist with his own.

“Genji!”

“Winston.” A nod. “How are you?”

“Well I’m doing just fine,” Winston answers conversationally, adjusting the collar of his (surely custom-tailored) shirt, “but it’s wedding season so things are getting pretty busy. What brings you out here?”

Genji ducks his head, the angle of his tinted visor briefly shielding his eyes from the other before he looks back up. “I need flowers,” he says, sheepish, “for someone in the hospital.”

“And here I thought you were just paying an old friend a visit.” Winston immediately picks up his shears, a roll of green tape, and sets both on the counter to free up his hands. He snags a box of roses with one foot, pulling it closer as a roll of cellophane appears from a cupboard under the cash register. “Someone you know?”

Genji answers with a noncommittal sound. Then: “I helped put him there.”

Winston adjusts his glasses, turning a skeptical look on the ranger. A corner of his lip lifts, baring the tip of a long, white fang.

“Talon is back,” Genji explains briskly, “and they have begun to drag civilians into their activities. I want access to his room.”

Winston sighs, blowing a long breath through his lips as he reaches for a bucket to begin an arrangement. “Why is it that you only visit when you need something?” From behind a bundle of carnations, he levels an inquisitive look toward his visitor. “How’s Zenyatta?”

“He is doing well.” Genji places his bag on the counter, carefully extracting a pizza box from inside it. He flips the top of the corrugated cardboard to reveal a pie covered in peanut butter and topped with slices of banana, the fruit toasted to a light golden-brown. The whole thing appears to shimmer; its surface is lightly drizzled with honey. “Also,” he says as Winston’s eyes light up, “I brought you something for your trouble.”

Bribery, as it turns out, still works wonders.

Genji leans across the counter, arms folded across its glass surface as he watches Winston pull together a tasteful assortment of blooms, their colors bright and cheery— just right for someone stuck in a hospital room. It only takes a few minutes for Winston to wrap the package carefully in cellophane before handing it to Genji. “I’ll have Athena call the hospital,” he says, “so you can bring these flowers up directly.”

Nodding, Genji takes the bouquet, cradling it carefully in both hands as he ducks his head. “Thank you.”

Winston watches him leave, absently picking up a slice of pizza and folding it lengthwise down the middle. The door swings shut, bell chiming again as Genji trots out of view. He takes a bite and taps the dimmed screen of his laptop, addressing it with a polite, “Athena,” as he waits on a ping of acknowledgement. “The Over-Watchers need a favor.”

‘ _Yes,’_ comes her testy reply, _‘and I remind you that the Over-Watchers no longer exist.’_

“Let’s put in that call.”

Winston waits on a dial-tone and a pattern of melodic beeps before he finishes his first slice and reaches for another. _‘If someone comes crashing through that door again,’_ Athena informs him with all of her usual affectionate exasperation, _‘I am going into hibernate mode.’_

* * *

 

Some impression of _wrongness_ washes over Lúcio when he shoulders the door to his apartment open. The studio loft isn’t big (space being in short supply in this city) but it’s cozy and, for the most part, tidily kept. He stops a few steps in, eyes narrowed, but it looks exactly as he’d left it, laptop screen at his desk still glowing and all.

He locks the door behind him.

It takes a moment to recognize the sharp, potent scent tickling his nose: ozone, like the heavy charge in the air before a storm. His laptop couldn’t nearly generate enough static to cause it; the rest of his equipment’s been deactivated and properly stored at a different site since he arrived in New York. A quick check of his room, and the trunk under his bed containing his skates, confirms that none of his belongings have been tampered with.

Lúcio considers: after an encounter with a sniper, befriending one of the former Over-Watchers, and visiting a secret headquarters hidden underneath a tiny pizza chain, paranoia in his circumstances wouldn’t exactly be _misplaced._

His instinct is rarely wrong, to begin with— and it’s served him well many times before. Lúcio shakes his head and plops down on the bed first, unlatching his prostheses to equip his skates. The latter process is significantly more involved; the shell encases his legs well past his thighs and to his hips, and a delicate system of sensors and latches engage, to keep it in snugly in place.

Once properly on hard-light blades he ducks into a closet for his grab-bag of emergency supplies— clothes, cash, flares, enough protein bars for a few days, a burner phone, a small first-aid kit— and drops it by the door, before retrieving a duffel.

Lúcio glances out the window next, checking to see whether or not Genji’s come back for him, and at the sight of an empty street he settles down in front of his computer and replaces his gold-rimmed shades with his headset. Scanning the taskbar for his e-mail client, he hits the icon to start the program, finger tapping on his mouse button as the loading popup appears.

Then he cancels the process, frowning. Barring a hard restart of his computer there’s no reason the client should’ve shut down, and he’d left the notebook on the night before. He stares hard at his desktop wallpaper, the files stored haphazardly in the corners. Nothing else is out of place.

The first company that comes to mind, Lúcio dismisses; Vishkar’s more subtle, more thorough, tends to leave a different kind of trace. Talon, then? Either way, someone he doesn’t want finding him has found him. He’s compromised.

A cool, steely calm washes over him— along with a significant pang of regret. He’s only been in the city a few weeks and the rent on this loft is a steal. He’ll probably get his deposit back if he clears out before anything else happens, so the first thing Lúcio does is tap out a text message to the landlord.

After that, he turns the phone in his hand, twice, before searching for the local Shambali Pizza. Tapping the link to call the shop, Lúcio presses his phone to his ear and waits on two rings.

“Shambali Pizza,” comes a familiar, mechanical voice into his receiver, “may I take your order?”

“Zenyatta?”

“Zenyatta is speaking,” the omnic confirms.

Lúcio leans back, chair creaking as he rolls his shoulders. “This is Lúcio,” he says.

A long, awkward pause follows. Zenyatta says, at last, “Would you like a pizza?”

“Uh, no?”

“I see.” The next reply carries both a hint of confusion and teasing: “This is the store line, Lúcio.”

“Oh, yeah, I was just checking in.” Laughing sheepishly, Lúcio looks toward his ceiling, as if to avoid the calm stare he knows would be on Zenyatta’s face. “I forgot to get your numbers so I just searched Shambali Pizza.”

Zenyatta makes an understanding sort of noise. “I will send you the contacts to reach Genji and myself directly.”

“Great.” Before the omnic can respond again, Lúcio asks, “Is there anything you need me to pick up on my way back?”

“No, unless there is something you would like for yourself.” A beat passes, not long enough for Lúcio to interject, but enough that there must be some distraction on the other side. “I will open the doors for you,” Zenyatta says, a note of urgency in his voice, “when you return.”

Lúcio pauses, his finger drumming idly against the edge of his phone. “Thanks,” he answers.

“Genji has also informed me that the man both of you subdued is in good physical shape, and has no memory of the incident.” The call quality isn’t very good, but if he concentrates, Lúcio can hear the quiet whir of Zenyatta’s parts. And under it, the tones of a message being received and answered. “It seems there will not be much evidence to be gained from investigating him further. Shall I tell him you are ready to return?”

“Yeah, but I was thinking of heading out now, so I’ll just meet him at the hospital. See you soon, Zenyatta.”

“Travel safe, Lúcio.”

Call ended, Lúcio pulls up the command window on his laptop, formatting his entire drive with a few keystrokes— maybe a futile action if all the information’s been pulled from it already, but he doesn’t save anything especially important on it anyway. The computer slots into a free space in his bug-out bag. He dives into his closet and drawers for the rest of his clothes.

Most of them are old enough and worn enough that they won’t be missed; he tosses them haphazardly into the pack on top of his incognito legs, while his spare performance outfit receives the privilege of being carefully folded and packed away. Slinging both bags over his shoulder, Lúcio glides to the door, into the hall and then down three sets of stairs (technically, grinding down the _rails_ of three sets of stairs) before he emerges back on the street.

Lúcio pushes forward on his skates, gliding easily down the street despite the weight of his cargo. The trip takes longer than it did on Genji’s bike but he makes good time, easily skirting around pedestrians and weaving through backed-up traffic.

He’s recognized on the way by a few teenagers, who high-five him as he passes— and Lúcio considers idly as he turns the last corner to his destination that that’s probably the most comfortingly _normal_ thing to happen to him all week.

* * *

 

In the heat of the day, Hana can feel her hair begin to stick to her neck. That summer rain is definitely approaching— it’ll probably reach this part of the coast later in the evening, and leave just as quickly. She glances down at the GPS coordinates on her phone, then makes her way to the crosswalk as the bus she’d just stepped out of trundles past in a crush of afternoon traffic.

“Are we sure she left her phone there?” she says aloud while she waits for the light to change. Several people glance at her; probably (correctly) wondering if she is who they think she is. She grins at them, politely; but leaves it at that. No point in revealing herself when she’s on a mission.

“If she were sure,” Nari snorts, voice transmitted through Hana’s earbuds, “you wouldn’t be following GPS coordinates right now. Aren’t you Song Hana, South Korea’s number one VR gamer? You can afford taxi fare if you’re really that tired.”

“I still have to go to college,” Hana rolls her eyes— then narrowly side-steps an elderly man, who gives her a steely look for walking while phoning. She ducks her head, hastily, before moving on. The cheery green line on the screen leads her nearly 2km away; she’d had to get off the line to the hospital four stops earlier. “These directions don’t seem right though,” she says, frowning at the bulleted list of directions. They’re straightforward, but lead her nowhere near the place they’d gone for dinner last night.

In her ear, Nari sighs. “I thought so too, but I didn’t want to say it in front of Mina. Somebody might’ve stolen it, you know? Go ahead and head back if you want, we can call it a lost cause. Don’t wander off somewhere you don’t know.”

At the end of the block she’s walking, Hana stops. The path indicated on her phone takes a ninety-degree turn into a side street, too narrow for cars— but just as littered with vertical signage, restaurants and businesses alike fighting for the attention of passerby on foot.

Her phone tells her there’s 1.8km left to go.

“No,” Hana decides, making the turn. “I’ll keep going. I’ll call you back later, okay unni?”

The store she finally arrives at is an automated self-service diner; it looks as if it’s been shuttered for years, every window thick with dust. The sign over the door reads in English:  
S AMBA   PIZZA

“S… amba pizza?” she reads aloud, eyeing the logo. She was right, though; the directions are wrong. A pizza shop isn’t the furthest thing from a hole-in-the-wall barbecue, but it’s close.

Checking her phone again, Hana casts the shop a skeptical look and cups her hand over the glass, trying to peer inside. It’s empty, as expected, the silhouettes of old chairs stacked in towers at the far wall, half a dozen tables shoved against another.

She frowns. The app that Mina had used to track her phone refreshes the signal every few minutes, so it can’t be wrong— except, that signal seems to be pinging from _inside_ the store. Well, if it’s a restaurant, there must be a service entry, or some way for maintenance to be done. When she finds it it’s on the side of the building and unexpectedly _not_ locked. After a cursory inspection, she shrugs. Expecting to come up short, she tries the handle with a carelessness that betrays her confidence—

— and stumbles inside, with a yelp.

The cloud of dust she kicks up immediately sends her into a coughing fit. She has to pull the collar of her shirt over her mouth and nose to recover, and she breathes slowly, eyes watering, until the stinging in her throat subsides. There’s no reason in the world that Mina’s phone would be here, unless her teammate raids dilapidated stores for fun— knowing her, unfortunately, it’s not completely outside the realm of possibility. But Mina had been with the team until last night, when she was admitted. She’d had her phone on her, too; had taken pictures on it that Hana has copies of.

The beam of her phone’s flashlight reflects dully off the wall and floor tiles, catching on years-old cobwebs, dilapidated machinery, another stack of abandoned chairs. Hana steadies herself, stepping carefully through the debris to tiptoe past the counter and to the back.

The kitchen is run down, old pizza-makers unplugged and standing idle. Hana pulls her earbuds out and stuffs them into a pocket; her phone tells her that Mina’s is _very close_ , the signal growing stronger as she wanders closer to the back of the shop. The pings grow faster and louder as she approaches what is clearly a storage closet.

The door creaks loudly on its hinges. Stepping inside for a better look reveals an assortment of expired cleaning supplies, and she has to shift the handles of several mops and brooms to continue her search.

A soft, purple glow catches the corner of her eye; it’s coming from behind her. She turns.

There’s— a keypad. Modern, made of seamless, molded materials. Its keys are illuminated in violet, throwing the rest of the closet’s contents into a sharp contrast. She leans in to inspect it.

“Huh,” she says.

Before Hana can even entertain the idea of putting in a number, the closet door slams shut, trapping her inside. The _wooden door,_ made of _wood_.

She stares blankly, stunned; then has to snap her head back over to the pad, or where the pad  _had been,_  when the whole thing retracts into the wall it’s set into. Her jaw drops— half indignant, half panic. “Huh?!” she squawks.

Her stomach does an odd swoop, the same lurch as in a descending elevator.

 _This,_ Hana thinks frantically as she stumbles off balance, knocking over a few broomsticks as she rights herself against a storage shelf, _is definitely how people get abducted!_

Alone in a pitch-dark closet, she briefly considers banging on the door— or calling one of her teammates to come fetch her. In the end, though, there’s no need. The wall that once had a keypad slides open seconds later in a way that would have been incredibly cool if not for the situation, revealing a wide, round room. Hana stays where she is. That’d be the safest course of action, definitely.

Her patience lasts all of thirty seconds. She takes a cautious step forward, a computer in the center of the room draws her attention first (as they tend to). Its projected screens flicker with charts and algorithms too complicated to work out at a glance.

Hana clears the threshold with her gaze still locked on the holographic globe and its central panel, and jumps when the opening slides shut behind her. But her curiosity overpowers the panic now: she swivels around again, eyes roving over sparse furniture, shelves and storage modules, the impossibly high stone ceiling, a row of old Tekken XI machines. The toe of her dust-coated shoes makes an errant squeak against the clean, tiled floor.

She looks down. When she looks back up, she sees it: directly across the room, an exit has appeared where there hadn’t been one before— and with it, a figure floating in its frame.

 


	3. It's Dangerous to Go Alone, Take This

Zenyatta slowly releases the charge on his orbs, allowing them to return to their steady revolution around his shoulders. He’d been expecting someone much more dangerous and much less confused upon receiving an unauthorized trespasser alert— but this stranger hardly seems like a threat.

They stare at each other for a time (3.46 seconds) without moving. He feels this is long enough to deem his earlier assessment is correct. “Hello,” he calls out, raising one hand in greeting.

The intruder stares across the distance, her eyes darting over his frame. Making no attempt to hide her apprehension, she squints, then ventures, “H… hello?”

Zenyatta puts his hands in his lap— a very nonthreatening posture, Genji had assured him once— and floats forward, taking the long route around the outer perimeter of the control center. “Greetings,” he says, slowing as he approaches, allowing her time to react.

Before he can drift to a complete stop, she skitters back a step, eyes wide. Her expression shifts from alarm to dismay as she glances behind her (to no avail; the elevator doors are firmly closed), then back to him.

He straightens. “My apologies for startling you. I was not expecting a visitor.”

The girl’s brows warily furrow. “뭐지 이 로봇… 옴닉처럼 생겼는데,” she mutters to herself, gaze roving over his face and chassis; lingering on his sensors, his articulated hands, the clothes he chooses to wear. “영어밖에 모르는가?”

“It is simply,” Zenyatta says, regarding her neutrally, “more convenient.”

The girl goes from blatantly scrutinizing his sensors to going very, very still. Impressively so, considering the sudden jump in her heart rate.

“헐,” she blurts, eyebrows shooting up in shock, and clamps a hand over her mouth as mortification stains her face red. “So you _are_ — I mean, you don’t have to— I didn’t think that—” She fumbles for words, hands gesturing weakly. “I— I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll go, I just— came in here by accident, I didn’t know any of this was here. I was looking for something in the pizza shop upstairs, you know, up the, elevator…” she trails off, wincing. Not the most confident delivery, nor the least suspicious— but she raises her cell, which still has the GPS tracking enabled. “My friend lost her phone and I tracked it here. I promise I’m not lying!”

It seems a plausible enough excuse, but she shouldn’t have been able to enter the base at all. Zenyatta tilts his head toward her device. “May I?”

She wavers, then tentatively approaches. He leans down, peering at the screen when she extends it. “Um,” Hana says, “I think the signal’s gone now.”

“It appears so.” Unsurprising, considering how far underground they must be. More importantly, based on his own scans, there’s nothing extraordinary about the device. How strange.

She fumbles with the home button, dismissing the app. “I was just gonna look around in the back of the store,” she continues nervously, “and if the phone wasn’t there I would’ve just gone back to— my friend. Her name’s Mina.” After a beat, she gestures to herself. “I’m Hana.”

The omnic inclines his head. “Welcome, Hana. I am Zenyatta.”

Hana silently repeats the name to herself, committing it to memory. “So why,” she starts, then clears her throat so it won’t crack again, “Why… is there a secret base under a pizza shop? Do you live here?”

“I do.”

“Oh.” A small, hopeful smile. “Have you seen a phone?”

“I have not.” Zenyatta unfolds his hands, allowing Hana to watch each of his fingers unfurl in one smooth motion until he’s gesturing, with an open palm, to her elbow. She blinks, then looks down, inhaling sharply at the sight of the cut up skin. Zenyatta retracts his hand as she swipes at the trickle of blood that’s run down her forearm. “It appears you have injured yourself. Would you like first aid?”

He moves toward the center of the room without waiting for her answer. After a brief moment, Hana follows, and Zenyatta paces himself to the fall of the footsteps chasing after him.

“So,” Hana asks as he produces a kit from under the center control panel and sets it on the table’s surface, “how long have you… I mean, are you always here by yourself? What do you do?”

Rather than drawing attention to the insignia emblazoned on the tin by trying to hide it, he casually flips open its lid and presents its contents to Hana: various antibacterial ointments and colorful band-aids, each with the faces of former Over-Watchers printed on them. “Not always, no. This is… a base of operations.”

To his amusement, Hana immediately selects a bandage based on Genji’s original uniform— the one he’d worn before the Over-Watchers disbanded. The same motif and the shade of green, but more glimmering silvery-whites than black. “An Over-Watchers first aid kit,” she marvels, “I haven’t seen one of these in years!”

Pausing from ripping open the sterile wrapping to allow Zenyatta a closer look at her elbow, she obligingly extends her arm, turning it to give him a better angle. He holds up a disinfectant swab, and she doesn’t shy from his gentle application of the stinging fluid, instead looking around the base with renewed interest.

“Are you a fan?” Hana asks. “Is this is like… a superfan HQ?”

Zenyatta is ninety-four percent certain that Genji’s reaction, had he been present to hear that question, would have been interesting to see. “... yes.”

An ecstatic smile spreads over her face. “I knew it. You’ve even got some pretty fancy equipment!” Her eyes scan the lines of code flashing across one of the screens (an algorithm to document and triangulate Hanzo sightings), then returns her attention to Zenyatta. “One of those tracking groups, right? I didn’t know those were still active!”

Ironically enough ‘tracking group’ is, indeed, what they’ve become. He nods. “The software has been repurposed.”

Hana leans on the table, fear and embarrassment forgotten as she watches him put away the first aid kit. “How many people are in the club?” She cups a hand over a sheepish grin and whispers, as if sharing a secret, “I used to be a pretty big fan of the Over-Watchers, too.”

“Three members, at the moment.” Zenyatta clears away the debris, then returns the band-aid box and bottle of disinfectant to their places. “We are smaller than we used to be,” he says, softly.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

The lights on Zenyatta’s forehead flicker briefly. He straightens with a small sigh; when he drifts to her side again to press an extra bandage into her hand, she doesn’t back away. “I imagine you would like to return to your friend, now.”

“Yes, please. Thanks!” She inspects the crimson motif printed on this one (Red Ranger, obviously), then laughs. “My friend was actually a Blue Ranger fan when were younger. It’s funny, ‘cause she’s in a hospital right now. This’ll be my apology for not finding her phone.”

A pause. Zenyatta regards her carefully, then turns to check one of the orbs circling his shoulders. “You are going to the hospital?”

She makes an affirmative sound. “Not too far from the shop.”

“Would it be too forward of me to ask a favor of you?”

An enthusiastic shake of the head. “No,” Hana answers, holding up her elbow, “I owe you one. I’m the one who came in here, and you ended up helping me. What’s the favor?”

Zenyatta plucks the orb out of the air, cradling it in his hand until its bright, incandescent lines dim to a soft glow. “One of our members left this here in the morning,” he says, presenting it to her with both hands. “I would appreciate it greatly if you could find him at the hospital, and pass this along.”

Despite the ease with which he’d handled it Hana finds it’s surprisingly heavy for its size, but it fits well enough into one of her pockets. “Sure. Who do I give it to?”

“His name is Genji. I will ask him to meet you in the lobby,” Zenyatta promises, leading her back to the exit.

“Genji, huh. Okay. Thanks again,” she quips, as he sees her inside with a polite wave, which she cheerfully returns.

“Of course.”

The elevator doors close, and the closet lurches up. Hana looks at the floor for a long moment, then sighs, releasing a long breath.

“Okay, that was weird.” She dips a hand into her pocket again, fingers closing around the orb. Lips twisting, Hana pulls up the tracker application up on her phone to check one last time, as the lift comes to a stop. She blinks when the signal begins to flash exactly at her current location.

A glance around reveals nothing, so she dials Mina’s number, then starts as a pop remix of the TITAN’S DEEP theme emanate from directly behind her. Spinning in place, Hana’s eyes land on a vibrating bucket, glowing from within. She scoffs, dismisses the call, and sweeps up Mina’s phone.

The door swings open, and light spills into the closet.

Hana recoils, blinking owlishly, not expecting the bright glare of polished metal, nor the low drone of dozens of pizza machines hard at work; the scent of warm, yeasty dough and roasted vegetables churns the air, tickling her nose. She inhales sharply in confusion and starts, expecting to choke on dust, but there’s nothing. On the far side of the spotless kitchen a single conveyor belt spits out a peppers-and-sausage pizza; she stares, confusion growing, as it rolls first onto a square of cardboard (which the machines quickly assemble into a box with the pie inside), and then under a labeler that rolls a “SHAMBALI PIZZA” sticker over the top.

The whole thing exits unceremoniously out a slot in the far wall. Hana turns to exit the scene herself— marching directly back into the closet to look for the keypad, a button, some seam in the door to take her back to the underground lair.

There’s nothing but a solid wall and some dirty buckets.

“Are you kidding me?” she hisses. She whips out her phone and frowns, eyeing the ‘ROAMING’ alert in the status bar along the top of the screen. Disgruntled, she tabs back to the tracking app— and balks at what she sees, her grip around her device loosening in shock before she manages to catch it again.

 _Current location: New York, 28_ **_°_ ** _C_

Without thinking her hand reaches for a wall to brace herself against; instead of a solid surface, it meets the end of an old broomstick instead. She gives it a dirty look, betrayed, and knocks it to the floor.

Back to the kitchen. Zenyatta didn’t give her a way to contact him again, and despite all the different machines at work, none of them look equipped to tell her anything except how long it takes to bake a pizza to automated perfection.

The orb in her pocket is a pool of warmth. Hana turns it in her hand, thumbnail flicking idly against its grooves. Well, she thinks: She’s still technically on a mission, and whoever this Genji is, he must know how to get back into the base. If all else fails, she can catch a flight back to Busan— the team would never let her live it down, but it’d beat being stuck in America.

Hana pulls up the native navigation app on her phone. The nearest hospital is only a few blocks away, even closer than the one in Busan would’ve been.

The air in the front of the shop is pleasantly cool in comparison to the kitchen; she tucks her phone back into her pocket and tries to look nonchalant as she trots out the door, past the line of patiently waiting, unsuspecting customers.

* * *

 

Incoming call, unknown number. Lúcio waits until he’s parked himself safely under a storefront awning, out of the way of the bodega’s glass doors, to raise a hand to his earpiece. His gesture-control gloves are buried in his duffle. “Hello?”

“Lúcio?”

“Hey!” Lúcio grins, taking another moment to add Genji’s number to his contacts list. “If it isn’t my favorite Ranger. I’m en route to the hospital right now.”

Not even early morning traffic can distract Lúcio from Genji’s laugh— a short, quiet sound. “I’m the only Ranger you know.”

“You mean Rider.”

“... yes.” A distant static, like cloth shifting, or a sheaf of paper being picked up— then the telltale creak of a seat cushion depressing under Genji’s weight. Must be a lobby, or a waiting room. There’s significantly less background noise on that side of the line. “How long will it take you to arrive?”

The sidewalk Lúcio is cruising along abruptly ends. He drops off the shallow curb and pushes onto the tar to dodge a patch of construction, building momentum until he hops lightly onto the next whole stretch of pavement. The name of this street is on a sign at the end of the block.

“Fifteen minutes,” he estimates quickly, swiveling his weight onto one blade to narrowly avoid a skateboarder. The hipster gives him an appraising look as she slips past him, visibly impressed by the maneuver. “Scratch that,” Lúcio laughs, “make it twenty. Manhattan obstacle course is throwing me some loops.”

“We should meet back at the shop. I’ll have to wait at the hospital awhile longer.”

Lúcio brakes, then retreats to a space between a stop sign and a traffic meter to catch his breath. “Yeah? What’s going on?”

“Master Zenyatta can explain it to you better. He will brief you back on base, and I will text you my access code.” After a brief pause he adds, “It’s urgent.”

“I hear you. So I guess these are my first mission parameters, huh? ‘Return to base for further instructions’?”

“I suppose it could qualify,” Genji allows, an odd note in his voice.

“Nice,” Lúcio replies. “Everything okay on your end?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Alright then. “I'm on my way.”

“Thank you.”

The back entrance of the shop is thankfully wide enough to admit him easily, skates and luggage and all; Lúcio refers to Genji’s message on his phone as he reaches it, purposefully avoiding the storefront and its customers. Once inside he beelines to the closet. The keypad flashes a bright lime-green once he punches in the code, and the door shuts itself behind him.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when it opens up again. “Holy shit,” Lúcio gasps, clutching his chest at the sight of Zenyatta hovering immediately outside the elevator.

Zenyatta greets him with a cheerful wave, turning a dial on the wall as the other man glides into the command center. “Welcome back, Lúcio.”

“I’m feeling,” Lúcio laughs as he sets his bags down, taking several deep breaths, “ _very_ welcomed right now, thanks. What’s the situation?”

“Potentially, a reenactment of last night.” Zenyatta watches a pair of heavily modified gloves appear out of one of the bag’s pockets; Lúcio has all five gyroscopic sensors on the left glove fitted and calibrated in the time it takes for him to straighten again. He motions with two fingers, watches his HUD shift to accommodate gesture input, then turns just in time to see Zenyatta indicate with a quick tilt of his head that he should leave his bags where they are, for now. “I have isolated and identified an energy signature that seems to coincide with Genji’s readings of the man you subdued,” the omnic explains, unperturbed by the sight of his gear. “If it is accurate, then there may already be a situation, and it must not escalate. You will need to step back inside the elevator.”

 _A reenactment?_ Lúcio frowns, but obligingly rolls back the way he came, leaving space in the closet for Zenyatta to follow. He waits with his hands on his hips, then prompts, “Coming?”

Zenyatta silently raises a hand. The doors slide shut on the sight of his little wave.

Lúcio opens his mouth, then closes it. “Take it that’s a no…?”

Incoming call, unknown number; a three-fingered swipe has Zenyatta’s voice streaming through his earpiece, a seamless transition. “I have sent you the coordinates to the hospital.”

Right on cue, a musical ping issues from his pocket. Lúcio sets to transferring the data to his headset. “The hospital?” he repeats, perplexed and a just shade exasperated. “Wouldn’t it have been faster if I’d just met Genji there?” Nevertheless, he watches the door, determined to make the trip as quickly as possible.

The first step he takes is directly into a haze of dust. Lúcio reels back, coughing on the tepid air that rushes up his nostrils and into his lungs. He doubles over, burying his nose into the crook of his elbow to force his next ragged breaths through the linen sleeve.

Zenyatta’s voice cuts through the noise; a cool, light-hearted monotone. “Different hospital.”

Lúcio groans. “You don’t say.”

The transfer completes. He keeps his arm over his mouth as he blinks his eyes open, watching a series of notifications scroll down his visor: the coordinates to his destination, another new number in his contacts list, and a short, badly compressed reel of security camera footage— the interior of a hospital lobby, a five-frame loop of a long-haired figure dashing out the doors still dressed in a hospital gown. Serious now, Zenyatta adds, “I have good reason to suspect that Talon is involved in this incident as well. If it is anything like the other, they will be searching for this patient.”

Thankfully, this kitchen has the exact same floorplan as the one he’s familiar with. Lúcio guns immediately for the back door. “Got it. On my way.”

His next surprise of the day, when he finally makes it out of the dilapidated shop he’d arrived in, is that it’s apparently night. Before he can start doubting his own sense of time he finally registers the signage and the faces of the pedestrians stepping politely around him.

“Uh,” he says, spinning in place as he checks (and then double-checks) his surroundings, “is there a hospital in K-town I didn’t know about?”

“No,” comes the reply. “You are in Busan, a city on the southeastern coast of—

His jaw drops. “ _Korea?!_ ”

“Yes! The elevator can transport Over-Watchers to any location in the world where there is also a Shambali Pizza. Though I believe our Busan location is now a ‘Samba Pizza’.”

“No way.” Ignoring the strange looks he’d drawn with his outburst, Lúcio turns to the shop itself, taking in the ‘S AMBA   PIZZA’ sign half-lit by a street lamp with a wide, incredulous grin. “No way! Damn,” He laughs, awed, “no wonder you guys could always get on location so fast! Over-Watcher’s Moving Base, really? Magical doors and all?”

“The base itself does not move,” Zenyatta informs him as he finally kicks off, eyeing the ample vertical wall space on each side of the street before reluctantly deciding against his favorite mode of transportation, “but that is an apt analogy.”

Two kilometers to destination. Lúcio makes it to the intersection in record time, dodging late evening commuters as he hurtles around the corner. There’s no time to take in the sights, but he manages a glance at the skyline, coasting just long enough to catch a sign hanging overhead of traffic, one of the directional arrows paired with an internationally recognizable block letter ‘H’.

“We’re looking for the person in the video, right?” he confirms, pulling up a playlist on his headset, discreetly making the gesture to scroll down to the last two tracks. “Let me know when Genji gets here.”

* * *

 

Genji reads the same three lines in a magazine for an entire minute before he relents, flipping it shut and returning it to the waiting room table. He fights the urge to sink into his seat when he sits back down again; Zenyatta’s messages hadn’t provided all that much information, and the idea of an emergency in progress on the other side of the world while he’s forced to _do nothing_ sets him on edge.

He uncrosses his arms to check his watch, the seams of his leather jacket creaking, and crosses them again. Then he sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, scanning his inbox while his heel taps impatiently against the floor.

_ > The orb is ready. _

Brief, but to the point. About a half hour after that one he had received three more, in five-minute intervals:

 _ > Lúcio is en route to your location. _  
_ > There is a disturbance in Busan. I will keep you updated. _  
_ > Please stand by at the hospital._

He had asked Lúcio to return to base between those last two messages— the faster the orb can be paired with him, the better— but in hindsight, meeting him at the hospital might’ve at least made the wait less agonizing.

About a minute later, he admits defeat. Genji stands, eyes on his phone as he taps out a message to Zenyatta. A warrior’s greatest strength is patience, his master had always liked to say; but he’d probably understand that Genji’s strength has its limits.

_ > What am I standing by for? _

Weaving absently around a gaggle of visitors at the reception desk, Genji tabs back to the security camera footage Zenyatta had set, idly running algorithms to try and sharpen the images. It works, but not enough to glean any additional information. Someone nearly collides with him in his absentmindedness, forcing him to look away.

His hasty apology freezes on the tip of his tongue. “Oh,” he breathes instead, understanding his mistake even before Zenyatta’s reply sets his phone’s vibration off; there’s a familiar, warm aura radiating from the stranger’s pocket, even as her face morphs into the picture of teenage annoyance as she looks him over, already prepared to walk past him.

 _ > Have you met with Lúcio yet? _ _  
_ _ > I sent the orb with Hana. _

He manages to snag her lightly by the end of her jacket sleeve, and lets go immediately when she whirls on him— this time with a palpably more hostile air. “Can I help you?” the girl demands, tipping her head back to look at him.

“You’re looking for someone,” he says, more statement than question.

She pauses, whatever tirade she’d clearly been preparing to unleash halted in its tracks. “Maybe. Are you Genji?”

“Yes,” he confirms, unnecessarily. “Hana?”

“Yeah, that’s me!” Consternation changes instantly to relief, and she blows her bangs out of her face. “Thank god you’re a real person. Okay, so actually, I was wondering if—”

“Apologies,” Genji cuts in, “but I need to leave right now. May I have the orb?”

“ _Actually_ ,” she repeats pointedly, taking a step away and out of his reach, “I was wondering if, you could take me back to the shop? I’m not supposed to be in New York.”

Genji stares. “Where are you supposed to be?”

“Korea.”

For a second, Genji says nothing, jaw clenching as he considers the possible chain of events that could’ve prompted Zenyatta to send _a civilian_ out to New York with an unpaired orb. He rolls his bottom lip through his teeth, glancing casually back at the lobby to make sure no one looks too interested in their conversation. “I’ll take you,” he says at last, deciding that the more pressing concern is catching up with Lúcio. He leads her out of the hospital lobby to where he’d parked his bike and hands her the spare helmet.

She eyes him suspiciously the whole time, but when she raises the helmet over her head to put it on, he sees the band-aid on her elbow, painted in his old colors. _No wonder,_ he thinks; he’ll have to thank his master later for the goodwill he’s borrowing, the thin thread of trust she’s granted him by association of a favor he’d had no part in giving.

Maybe that’s what Zenyatta had been counting on all along.

Speeding through mid-morning rush hour isn’t ideal in a city as crowded as New York, but having spent enough time doing it, he’s memorized every popular police haunt and common points of congestion. They make good time back to base and dash into the back of the shop together. Hana crowds into the closet with Genji as he punches in his access code and takes them back to headquarters, both of them stumbling out with a clatter of buckets and brooms as Zenyatta approaches.

“Master,” Genji gasps, “where is Lúcio?”

The omnic pauses. “Oh,” he says, echoing the same note of sudden realization as Genji’s earlier comment. He looks toward Hana, then back to the Ranger. “I sent him ahead,” he says, his voice a touch too controlled.

“Ahead?” Genji repeats, visibly troubled now that his suspicions have been confirmed. At his side he can feel Hana watching the both of them expectantly, having picked up on the tension. He rakes a hand through his hair, breathing deeply, then turns on his heel. “I will follow him. He will need the orb. And we need to return this girl—”

“Hana,” Hana interjects.

“—Hana, to Busan as well,” Genji continues smoothly, without breaking his gait.

“What am I, faulty merchandise?” she mutters under her breath, earning herself a deep frown when she catches up to the taller man’s side. She sticks out her tongue at that, plainly displaying her unflattering opinion of him.

There’s no pause before Zenyatta speaks this time, but what he says makes Genji’s fingers freeze over the dial beside the elevator doors. “We did not record any arrivals from Busan, so I assumed you came from our New York location. My apologies, Hana.”

“That’s okay,” Hana reassures, trailing Genji into the closet when he motions impatiently for her to join him. Toeing the spilled cleaning supplies aside, she quips, “I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I guess I should’ve mentioned it? Don’t you guys have like, a way to tell that sort of thing?”

Genji punches a code into the keypad. “We do.” Their security had to have been compromised if a total stranger could arrive on base with no system record. Over Hana’s head Genji meets Zenyatta’s gaze, a silent request to look into the matter while he handles the incident in Busan. “I will be back, Master.”

Zenyatta sends them off with a nod. “The Iris embraces you,” he says, as the doors slide shut.

“You guys are _really_ into the Over-Watchers,” Hana notes, offhandedly. Then, just before the doors open again she warns, “Hey, you better hold your breath.”

Genji gives her a strange look, then minutely recoils at the chalky, powder-grey draft that enters the closet at their destination. “Ah,” he says, stepping carefully into the dilapidated kitchen. The Busan location had been one of the first to fall into disuse.

Hana pushes past him, t-shirt pulled over her nose to weather the onslaught of debris. “Exit’s over here.”

“I know that.”

Their first steps outside the shop are into an inch-deep puddle of water. Heavy and insistent rain drums against the pavement, past the woefully inadequate overhang, directly onto the exposed crowns of their heads. By the time Genji manages to drag his hoodie out from under the collar of his jacket, his hair and shoulders are already drenched. Droplets slide off his nose and chin as Hana hastily shields herself with her umbrella. Ignoring her groan of complaint for a long look at their surroundings, he turns in place, orienting himself.

Suddenly: the tinny, five-note TITAN’S DEEP theme.

“Wait.” Genji stops her from answering it, holding out a hand. “The orb.”

She looks him up and down, mildly offended at the interruption, then answers her phone.

“어 언니, 왜?” she prompts, skirting around another puddle— glancing up, when Genji steps in her way. He, turning to face her so she can get a full view of his impatient raise of the brows, pointedly holds out his hand again, this time palm-up.

She makes a face and, just as pointedly, hands him her open umbrella.

“Thanks,” she quips, moving to stand beneath it. She points to the street. “Let’s go. You’re going to the hospital too, right?” When he doesn’t move, staring at her incredulously when she starts walking again, she turns an exasperated look on him. “Are you coming or not!”

He glares, yanking the handle out of her reach when she tries to take it from him. _Just barely_ he suppresses the urge to fold the umbrella back up, instead channeling his frustration into hurrying her along. Hana keeps up, but makes him pay for it— his expression goes wry when she missteps, splashing through the gutters instead of stepping over it as he did, and water tides over his shoes and the hem of his jeans, soaking them through.

Absorbed in her call, Hana chatters loudly, clearly dealing with what sounds like a worried friend. At the crosswalk, Genji indicates with his head the changing light; they must make an odd pair, he thinks, though he can tell Hana’s making a better effort to match pace now. It’s easier when he moves slightly ahead, parting the crowd for her.

Even at this time of night, Busan is still bustling. If he could read or recognize written Korean with any competence he might have made an attempt at navigating to the hospital; this not being the case, Genji instead pulls his entourage of one under the shelter of a covered set of stairs— two wide sets of steps leading down to the city’s underground subway network— to consult his GPS again. Technology to the rescue.

He glances at Hana to ask the name of the hospital, hoping to catch her attention for a few seconds, only to see that she’s frozen in the middle of pulling strands of wet hair from her face, brow heavy with worry. Genji pauses, then opens his mouth—

“네? 탈출?!” Hana practically yells. Genji blinks, deflating as she goes on, “그게 무슨 소리에요, 어떻게 사람이 병원에서 없어져요? 언니가 같이 없었어요?”

The words ‘escape’ and ‘hospital’, both in a distinctly alarmed tone, instantly catch his attention. He takes the _look_ Hana levels at him for eavesdropping in stride. Small price to pay. “Your friend is missing?” he interrupts.

The voice on the other line pauses, then lilts up, ending in a question. Hana looks at him again, this time with a glare.

He returns it with a deadpan expression.

“Uh,” Hana stalls, narrowed eyes flickering from the ground, to him, then to the ground again. “그냥, 이 근처에 사는 선배,” she tells Nari, through a visibly fake smile the other girl won’t see. “오는길에 우연히 만나서… 언닌 아직 병원이죠?”

She begins to chew at her lip, still listening to the call. Pedestrians moving into and out of the station flow around them continuously, like a diverted river around a stone. Genji can’t help but search their faces, toe tapping impatiently. Anxiously.

_Where is Lúcio?_

“그게—” Hana wipes rain from her forehead and nose with her free hand, fingers leaving damp marks on the shoulder she reflexively clutches. “응. 지하. 그래서 통화가… 아뇨, 식당은 맞았는데…” Not specifying _which_ restaurant technically makes her answer true, which alleviates some of the guilt as she presses closer to the low concrete wall at her back, allowing a gaggle of high school students to pass.

An insistent noise alerts Genji to his own incoming call. He retrieves his phone one-handed, still holding the umbrella in the other. Almost immediately after putting it to his ear he pulls it away to look at its screen, then taps Hana on the arm, gesturing insistently for her to hang up when she glances his way.

She shakes her head at him, irritated.

Genji’s lips flatten into a line. He turns the phone in his hand, showing her the image displayed: a still of a young woman in a thin jacket over a hospital gown, her figure blurred but very clearly running into the very set of covered stairs they’re standing in front of. The timestamp reads nearly twenty minutes ago.

“Your friend?” he asks.

Eyes wide, Hana snatches the phone from his hand.

“언니. 나 가야돼요,” she says, almost in a daze as she stares at the image; then repeats, tightly, “나 방금 미나 언니 봤어요, 끊어요!” and finally hangs up with a furious swipe.

Genji reaches to reclaim his phone, only for his fingers to close around empty air as she dodges the attempt.

The expression on Hana’s face as she looks him over, clearly reconsidering her impression of him, is severe. The glint in her eyes is a dangerous sort of calculating. “Zeny told me you’re a tracking group. Is that true?”

 _Tracking group?_ Genji says nothing, simply making a grab for his phone again, which Hana again avoids.

“Hey!” she glowers. “Answer me. How did you get this photo? You’re not really a fanclub, are you!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Genji snaps, feinting a grab in one direction, then lunging in the other. He wrestles his phone back and, checking behind to make sure she’s following, turns and dashes down the steps two at a time. Barreling past the flow of pedestrians, he puts the phone to his ear, already dialing another number. “Your friend is in trouble!” he calls back.

Hana speeds after him. Luck is in her favor; they’re smack dab in the middle of the underground shopping center, almost a block from the _actual_ entrance to the subway, plenty of obstacles in his way to slow him down. She nearly catches up with him before he turns a corner, leaving her angry and breathless and at the other end of a ten-foot lead.

“Did you get the update?” he asks aloud; Hana catches herself before she can sarcastically reply (“Uh, _no?_ ”), more interested in trying to hear what he’s saying. “I am on my way,” he says, skidding briefly to a stop when he finally finds the subway entrance; Hana nearly runs into him. She grabs his arm, but he doesn’t react. “Just passed a,”— he glances around, searching for the nearest recognizable boutique— “Etude House.” A beat. “Understood.”

He hangs up without any more formalities, and turns to his pursuer.

“This way,” he tells her, then pushes through the crowd in earnest— gaining a few loud complaints for the trouble, several people lined up to pass the row of turnstiles objecting to being shoved out of his path. But with the sharp expression on his face, the hair plastered to his forehead, and the unhesitating confidence of someone wearing a leather jacket, he reaches his goal without much difficulty. Hana has to let go to avoid being dragged behind him; all the better, as she wouldn’t have been able to copy his next move anyway.

Genji jumps the turnstiles.

Someone starts yelling. Hana’s yelp of surprise dies in her throat as she spies several security guards closing in; her own pass in hand, she flies through the check without looking back, afraid she’ll lose sight of Genji if she hesitates. His height gives her an advantage. She picks him out fairly easily and leaps the final yard, actually colliding with him this time in her haste.

“Finally got you,” she huffs, closing a hand around his arm again— and stumbling forward, taken off-guard, as he breaks into a dead run.

“She’s here.” He takes a sharp left, pausing just long enough to catch her wrist before his momentum can shake her loose. He doesn’t even look back, grip tight as they run down another set of stairs and finally emerge on the platform. “My friend saw her jump down, and he followed.”

“Mina wouldn’t do that!” But Hana catches sight of the crowd of commuters gathered at the mouth of one of the tunnel openings, many of them murmuring and staring worriedly down the tracks, and has to reconsider. Genji tries to step away; she drags him back. “Who are you?” she demands. “Why were you tracking her in the first place?”

Genji puts a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here,” he orders, removing her hand from his sleeve.

“What?”

He sprints past the crowd, straight past the bright yellow line and over the green safety railing before anyone can stop him. A few gasps of shock echo in his wake, as well as several loud calls for a police officer, a conductor— _anyone_ who can curb the delinquents jumping into the tracks.

Hana stares after him, shellshocked. A few people are already shouting for the other passengers to move, making way for station staff, security guards— others are attempting to contact the conductors, asking them to stop any incoming trains.

Genji’s bright green hoodie recedes into the shadows, taking the sound of his footsteps with it. At the edge of the crowd she can barely see into the tunnel behind the wall of bodies; chewing on her lip, she turns to find a better vantage point— and immediately trips against another person.

Something presses against her thigh. She goes to fish it out of her pocket, and a moment later her fingers close around a solid metal sphere, grooved and warm to the touch, and she freezes.

Eyes wide in dawning horror, she stares down the tunnel entrance again. _Shit!_

An old lady gives her a withering look. _Oops._ Must have said it out loud.

Above, the station lights flicker. The guards are getting closer now, and the crowd has mostly been cleared from the drop; her eyes land on the narrow gap between an office lady and an elderly man as they both move in different directions; one of the guards turns to calm a belligerent businessman, arguing with several people who keep pointing down the tunnel, refusing to leave.

She takes the opening.

A four-foot drop, and too much momentum in the landing; she nearly runs into the dusty platform wall before catching herself against it with a heavy grunt. An older woman lets out a wail of distress over the recklessness of today’s youth— but the sound fades quickly as she runs in the opposite direction. Behind her, an announcement plays on the overhead speakers, notifying civilians that all trains are on schedule.

* * *

 

A high, keening whine, and then a sharp noise like a camera shutter.

He twists away in the nick of time. A spray of bullets flies past, pelting the far tunnel wall in a narrow arc, and Lúcio feels the suspension in his skates strain as he puts on a burst of speed, jumping exposed pipes to make his escape. If it weren’t for his headset, the ricochet of each shot and the echo of his own hard-light blades alone would’ve been deafening; if the tunnel weren’t wide enough to accommodate two trains and the station, that gunfire would’ve been _unavoidable_.

Eventually he hears his assailant pause to reload, then nothing but the drone of high-voltage lines _;_ the assault ends, for now. He sags in the space between two dividing columns, sweat beading on his brow.

Whatever she’s using to track him outstrips his tech by a mile; she can both find and close the distance on him easily, despite the darkness and the suffocating atmosphere. From what few glimpses he’d been able to catch as he flees her assault, her weapon fires like some sort of SMG— but the body is far more compact than any he’s ever seen, the reload too short, the bullets some variation of plasma munitions he doesn’t recognize. Leave it to the villains to have the weirdest, most difficult guns to counter.

Not to mention that pulse she’d sent out just over a minute ago. It’d taken out all the lighting in the vicinity, dropping the three of them into a pitch black void; if he were lucky, the ventilation system had survived, too. Lucky all his gear had weathered it fine, though not without cost; his visor still flickers oddly, and sometimes fails to register a command from his glove.

The only reason she hasn’t come after him, he thinks, is because she’s more interested in the girl.

He lets his head fall back against the concrete, teeth clenched.

“ _Think,_ Lúcio,” he hisses, flexing his hands, watching the equalizer on his visor tick up as the current track playing on his headset loops for the fifty-fourth time.

There’s a train coming this way. He’d known it when he’d jumped after the girl, known it every second he’d spent on the tracks trying to get past the woman, who— judging by her determination to prevent him from saving all three of them— _must_ be a part of Talon. At this point they have less than five minutes to get out of dodge, and not for the first time he regrets only glancing at the timetables on his way in instead of snapping a photo. He’s confident in his memory, but if the train happened to be _early_ …  

He hears a distant chuckle; it’s the agent. Sound carries far too well here. “You’re running out of time, you know,” she taunts, “Why don’t you make this easy for us, hmm?”

“Maybe I’d be more cooperative,” Lúcio bites out, raising his voice, “if I could help my friend over there first?”

“Mm… sorry. Running a little late. I’m sure you understand.”

The unmistakable squeal of a train leaving the station reverberates through the tunnel. As the cars on the adjacent track shudder to life, Lúcio grimaces, covering his exposed ear; this is absolutely how people get tinnitus. _Hazards of the new job, I guess._

Sensing an opportunity, he tenses, prepared to leave his cover before the noise dies off— in hopes that the train will cover the sound of his skates for a few pivotal seconds— but a gloved hand closes around his forearm, thwarting his plan. He jerks back on instinct, and nearly rams his elbow into the surface of a bulletproof black visor.

Relief washes the tension from his body when he recognizes the silhouette. The lights in Genji’s armor are dimmed, and the shadows throw his figure in stark, cutting lines, but he could recognize those spikes a mile away. Silently, Genji pulls him to his feet, a firm, steady presence. “Sorry I’m late,” the Ranger murmurs, voice pitched to be audible under the rattle of wheels in the adjacent tunnel. “But I am here now. Genji is with you.”

The other train will pass soon, and with it, their only real opening. The cooling fans in Lúcio’s skates have shut off, leaving him no relief from the heat and humidity of the subway tunnel; if the odds don’t take him first, heat exhaustion will raise them. Teeth clenched against the dull throb in the back of his neck, Lúcio raises one hand to trigger gesture-controlled typing and fires off two quick messages.

Autocorrect compensates for the damage to his hardware.

_ > train in 4min we gotta move  
> can u see her _

Genji peers around the column, then dials Lúcio’s number, assuming correctly that his headset can take the call. His voice transmits directly. “The girl is still on the tracks. I’ll retrieve her.”

> theres someone else

A short pause. “My night vision and infrared sensors do not detect another person.”

His hand shoots out, snagging the end of Genji’s glove before he can pull away. Genji freezes, and, realizing what the other man is doing, waits while Lúcio finishes typing furiously.

 _> talon agent. cloaking  & EMP_  
_ > compact SMG reload 1.5s_  
_ > shes FAST, i can distract_  
_ > but we dont have much time_

Genji shifts; his hand wraps easily around the whole of Lúcio’s forearm, gently but firmly interrupting him. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice low.

Lúcio blinks— when had his pulse leveled out so much, allowing that tremor of exhaustion to settle into his limbs? It’s still too early to relax; he shakes himself, wiping the sweat on his nose onto his shoulder, then releases Genji’s arm, smiling tiredly.

_ > im still good  
> lets get this done _

The tilt of Genji’s visor betrays his skepticism, but every second is precious. He nods. “Once I have her, I’ll signal a retreat.”

_ > copy.  
> dw ranger, ive got ur back _

“Rider,” Genji replies automatically, shutting off his lights as he slides into a low stance. Lúcio watches him melt into the darkness, and shakes his head— managing to suppress all his laughter into a broad, exhausted grin.

They step into the open together. Genji disappears from his side; Lúcio shoots forward, hurtling blindly by the light from his skates. He picks up the pace when he hears that distinctive whine again. Maybe he can outrun—

No. She’s already there.

“Looks like you brought a friend,” he hears her chuckle, right in his ear. He swears, kicking out— hitting nothing— then dives in another direction, zigzagging, expecting to draw gunfire.

A piercing scream fills the tunnel instead and Lúcio takes off again, cursing through clenched teeth at the sluggishness in his reaction time. _Cover blown._ He won’t make it in time.

The roar of the departing train dies off.

“ _Genji!_ ” he shouts.

A moment later the accents on the Ranger’s armor flicker on to maximum luminance, throwing out a well of light. The girl struggles violently in his grip; he’s caught one of her wrists, gamely weathering the kicks she directs at his greaves and the punches she throws at his chest. Even from a distance, Lúcio can tell there’s no opening. The thought of taking one where there isn’t one, potentially injuring her in the process, doesn’t sit right with him anyway. But with the train on its way, their options are quickly dwindling.

As he watches, Genji catches her other wrist mid-swing. The girl yanks back, growling, but even throwing all her weight away from him, she can only barely affect his center of gravity. Stamina drained, she falls limp.

Genji shifts reflexively to counter her sudden inertia— and immediately regrets it when an unexpected heel drives directly into his abdomen. He doubles over to cushion the kick, thinking to spare her a compound fracture; he finds the wind knocked out of him instead, thrown by a hit that belies her frame. She lunges forward, pushing the advantage, burying a fist into his scarf and wrenching him viciously down by the loop. Her other fist slams into the side of his helmet.

Braced on one knee, Genji grunts, more annoyed than pained, and catches the next downward blow by her forearm. With a solid grip on her jacket sleeve he twists her arm to the side, hoping to lock it behind her back. The rotation sends something in her jacket flying— clattering to a stop as it hits the ground.

It blinks, twice, then flashes. A flare of violet light disrupts the inconsistent darkness as the Talon agent _materializes_ out of thin air. Lúcio brakes hard, staring down the barrel of her strange gun as she cocks an eyebrow, finger on the trigger.

Her other hand rises toward Genji. Lúcio watches as a holographic interface flicks out the tips of her fingers, and the mechanical whine underlying her low chuckle makes his stomach drop.

He inhales to shout another warning, but it’s too late.

There’s no light this time, just Genji staggering back as if struck by invisible lightning, stiff and off-balance as Mina uses the opening to break out of his grip and flee. The agent moves back effortlessly, covering her retreat with a hail of bullets; Lúcio has no choice but to bail for the walls, out of their way, and the staccato burst of plasma rounds following him catch on Genji’s armor, reflecting off the sight of an all-too-familiar purple skull crawling up the front of his visor.

 _“Sombra,”_ Genji snarls, lurching unsteadily toward her with his arm outstretched; overhead, Lúcio makes a hairpin turn, diving off a center column to take the fastest way back: straight down. The corners of _Sombra_ ’s lips curve up, cool green light reflecting dimly off bright purple lipstick.

Then she turns, and vanishes. Genji’s fingers close on air, legs collapsing under him.

One minute left on Lúcio’s timer; but the low rumble in the distance better marks the end of the countdown. Twin beams of light appear on the curved wall of the tunnel, fast approaching.

Landing roughly on the ground, Lúcio dives for Genji, grip straining as he hauls one arm over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says breathlessly, far too unwaveringly for it to be anything but a front for his panic, “hey, get up. We gotta move. We gotta move.”

“Lúcio,” Genji chokes out. His limbs shudder as if locked into place, armor throwing sparks where he fights it hardest. “Mina. The girl—”

“I’m _not_ leaving you here.” Lúcio digs his fingers into Genji’s belt and _lifts_ , adrenaline fueling his haste. “Come on Ranger, we gotta _move!_ ”

Sombra reappears at the mouth of the tunnel, too far away for them to stop her. Phasing out of the darkness to materialize right in Mina’s path of escape, she raises her machine pistol, counting on whatever lucidity the girl has left to shock her in place. It seems to work: Mina pulls up short, her eyes still glazed, now also wide with fear.

“Good girl,” Sombra purrs, eyes flickering to the headlights steadily rounding the curve; slower now, as it nears the station, but not slow enough to stop for them. She glances at a readout embedded in her glove, unconcerned. “Stay right there. Just a little bit longer, and— _AUGH!_ ”

Halfway to dragging Genji across the tracks, Lúcio glances up.

Mina, and past her, Sombra; and past _her_ , as the agent staggers to the side, clutching her head: a new challenger.

Hana steps back, hefting the orb in her hands for better purchase as Sombra whirls on her, a growl on her lips. “This is no place for _children,_ ” she snarls.

When Mina tackles her to the ground, her gun goes flying into the gravel.

Before they can fully disengage from each other Hana runs forward, reaching instinctively to catch Mina by the shoulders, dragging her to her feet. “Unni,” she gasps, pulling her toward the station, “It’s me! Run!”

With a cry, Mina barrels into her, intent on removing the final obstacle in her path. Hana hits the ground without so much as a sound, too shocked to utter a word— but scrambles to her feet in time to recoil from Mina’s next swipe, using the orb still clutched in one hand to deflect the blow. When there’s no recognition in the older girl’s eyes Hana falls back, hoping the other girl will follow to attack, if not to escape. As long as she doesn’t run the other way. As long as she doesn’t trip and fall.

To her horror, Mina freezes in place, stumbling on the raised track, disoriented by the headlights.

“No!” Hana gasps, starting toward her, then stopping again, blinded by the same beam. “No, stop _—_ ”

“Run!” Lúcio shouts. “Just run! _Get out of the way!_ ”

The narrow divide in the center of the two-train tunnel is just barely out of the train’s path. Genji rolls off his back, landing heavily on his side before Lúcio can heave him between the columns, resisting the urge to crash to the ground beside him. The purple skull on Genji’s visor flickers weakly. Lúcio looks down, sees the Ranger’s fingers curl slowly into a fist. The only part of him that still moves.

A moment later, the train overtakes their position. Metal brakes grind into metal tracks, a deafening screech. Mina wraps her arms over her head, lips parted in a scream.

Sombra stirs just as Hana dashes past; lifting her head, she sees the train closing in, the brakes locked and spitting sparks, the terrified conductor’s face as he watches a girl leap into the center of the track. Hana’s arms are outstretched, expression desperately resolved; the orb she had held tightly in her hand falls to the ground behind her, forgotten as she throws herself over her teammate.

Curling her fingers into a fist, Sombra levers herself off the tracks. Her other hand rises toward the train.

* * *

 

From the other side of the tunnel, Lúcio sees first: a pulse of violet light, racing out from the direction of the station. It takes out the train’s headlights, and this time shorts his gear as well, plunging them all into complete darkness— broken only by a shower of friction-fed sparks. He hears, rather than sees, the train slam into something, and the cars behind the first slip off the tracks, piling into the wreckage. Not slowly enough to spare the passengers inside from injury; not quickly enough that anything worse is more probable.

The crash of derailing carriages cascades closer by the second and Lúcio instinctively flattens himself against the column. One arm throws itself over what he can reach of Genji (his shoulders), while the other arm folds tightly over his head to weather a wave of flying gravel.

He waits for the noise to subside before unfurling himself, feeling a fine coating of dust and a shower of debris fall from his back and shoulders. The body of the train is a haphazard, crooked line— but the nearest cars have ground to a stop several meters away. Lúcio pulls back, chest heaving. “Genji?”

Genji doesn’t move.

* * *

 

Hana gasps, eyes flying open to nothing but pitch black darkness. A cold finger of horror slides down her spine before a pinprick of light appears, then solidifies, then expands, filling her vision.

A slew of messages rolling down a HUD— on a screen, in front of— no, in her _helmet—_ a _HUD_ in her _helmet—_ what?

She squints, uncomprehendingly, and the interface continues shifting and rearranging itself as if unsure how best to optimize the space. Her fingers twitch at the sight, reflexively grasping for some sort of physical control.

She stares at the gloves they’re encased in. The joysticks that had been clutched in her death grip until just a moment ago.

“What… what is this?”

 _ > Oh _ _  
_ _ > How unexpected _

The buttons she can _see_ register with the slightest press of a thought. Files and folders open at her whim, almost faster than she can read.

 _ > Hello again, Hana _ _  
_ _ > This is Zenyatta _

Everything freezes, as if paused from an external source. Hana’s almost as grateful as she is startled by it, and the next few messages register in her mind more quickly than her eyes can track text.

 _ > Allow me to explain _  
_ > The person you just rescued was targeted by a member of Talon, a criminal organization. _  
_ > They are the ones responsible for your friend’s current situation and ill health _  
_ > The orb that you were meant to give to Genji grants its user superhuman abilities, as well as an embedded data link back to myself.  Thank you for activating it _  
_ > It was meant for another candidate, but it seems it has taken to you. _  
_> Are you safe, Ranger?_

“Ranger?” Hana repeats faintly, still only dimly aware of her own galloping pulse and the memory of the train bearing down on them.

The train.

Still running on the dregs of what she’d thought was about to be her final, fatal surge of adrenaline, Hana _breathes._ “Oh my god,” she whispers, realization dawning with the memory of the transformation— the orb. “You guys aren’t tracking the Over-Watchers. You _are_ the Over-Watchers.”

_ > That is correct _

She climbs to her feet, and feels the world move around her. On the ground, just ahead, twin trenches are carved through packed gravel, and she knows they’re nearly two meters long though they disappear under the front of the train, out of sight. The reinforced joints of her mech shudder as she steps back, pulling a three-clawed foot from the splintered remains of the track’s wooden slats. The train stays where she’d stopped it.

Hana lifts her gaze, meeting eyes with the conductor, whose jaw is practically hanging loose. In the cracked glass of the subway’s lead car she catches the reflection of her mech’s cockpit, seaglass green and translucent— and behind it, the faint impression of a streamlined, ovoid helmet, a large set of spikes curving up from the center of an oversized black visor.

A low chime snaps her out of her reverie, alerting her to the damaged state of her mech, the approximate locations of nearby people. Two ahead, hundreds in the train… two behind. Only one that really matters.

The cockpit ejects her when she realizes she can’t turn completely around in it— not without destroying several more feet of tracks. So she lands, clumsily, and runs, leaving the machine behind.

It vanishes with a flash, and a rush of displaced air, as if pulled into another dimension.

“Unni? Unni!” Dropping to her knees at Mina’s side, she presses a hand against her face— her sigh of relief nearly explodes out of her when she feels warmth seep into her glove, the soft puff of breath brush past her knuckles. The HUD reacts belatedly— enhancing her sight, applying nightvision, a bump in contrast, an overlay with thermography readings. It’s dark, but Mina is safe. _Alive_. “Unni,” Hana pleads, “you gotta wake up.”

For five long, agonizing seconds, nothing happens.

Then Mina inhales sharply, groaning as she shifts, arms pulling back to her body, shielding herself from an unseen pain. A dark, roiling sphere phases out of her chest, unhindered by the material of her pinstriped hospital gown; Hana leans in as readouts and windows cascade open on her visor, then recoils when a sudden wave of dread and unease settles over her. But concern for her friend beats out everything else, and she grits her teeth as she reaches out.

The press of a metal barrel to the side of her helmet stops her, white-gloved fingertips just centimeters from contact.

Sombra’s breath is labored; but her voice is still smooth and low, easily picked up and transmitted by whatever audio receptors are in Hana’s headgear. “I’ll be taking that.”

The dread solidifies into sharp, overwhelming _fear_ . Hana straightens, moving stiffly as Sombra taps the barrel twice against her helmet, directing her to stand. The agent watches her out of the corner of her eye, gaze sharp, then keeps her in her line of sight as she stoops to inspect the _thing_ that’s floating over Mina’s chest. The sphere reacts to Sombra’s interference, spitting out more of its miasma.

Hana watches her teammate’s face twist and looks to her HUD, gaze flitting to each corner in a panicked sequence.

_I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fight!_

Then she blinks. A window she hadn’t realized had been put away suddenly reappears, her last, most desperate thoughts writ large— interspersed, she realizes, with messages of reassurance that she hadn’t noticed until now.

_Zenyatta!_

_ > Are you all right? _ _  
_ _ > It appears your friend is still in danger _

_Yeah,_ she thinks; but more importantly, _I need a weapon!_

 _ > The emblem on your belt can be used to summon one _ _  
_ _ > Although I must warn you that _

Hana drops her hand to her waist, activating the emblem with a soft click. What appears in her hands is a weapon nearly as long as she is tall; it immediately crashes to the ground.

The noise draws Sombra’s attention back up, the barrel of her SMG shifting to track Hana more carefully as she strains against the weight of a gun that was clearly not designed to be wielded by humans. Even with the added strength and reinforcement provided by the armor, she only manages to scoot it sideways.

_WHAT IS THIS???_

More text scrolls up the screen.

 _ > A particle cannon, the former Pink Ranger’s weapon _  
_ > Each Ranger eventually gains weaponry that is uniquely suited to their skillset _  
_ > But your orb will need time to adjust to_

_I don’t have time!_

Sombra scoffs. “What are you doing? You can’t even lift that thing.”

Hana throws her weight against the barrel, shifting it to point directly at the hacker, whose expression swiftly changes.

“You’re not seriously going to—”

“Back off,” Hana orders. With her visor labeling parts and offering instructions in real-time, the cannon activates quickly in her hands. “I’m warning you!”

_ > Hana I highly advise against _

A ball of energy forms in the cylindrical charging coil as the weapon gathers energy. Her fingers find the trigger— a wide, heavy switch. She squeezes it, prompting a blistering ray of light to appear, carving through concrete where it meets the tunnel wall. Sombra dives away, but just barely; a moment later she flees in the opposite direction, from a grenade-like blast that knocks her off her feet.

> _Ah._

The agent lands in a crouch, eyes narrowing when Hana leans against the barrel, determined to reposition it again.

“Ugh,” Sombra grumbles, touching something on her wrist that emits an electronic whine, “forget it. I’m out of here.” Casting one last exasperated look at the sphere, she throws something into the air behind her— and vanishes.

Simultaneously, the hiss of multiple subway doors opening fills the tunnel. Lights flicker down the length of the train, displays and signs reset, glowing purple before returning to their regular hue. Hana sees one of the gutsier passengers poke his head out of the closest car, then duck back in after catching sight of her.

She looks down at herself, dully registering her Ranger armor, then looks back up as people stream out of the cars in earnest.

 _Sombra’s using the people as cover,_ Hana realizes. _To escape._

 _ > Perhaps it is better to let her, for now _ _  
_ _ > Please disengage your weapon _

A press to her belt does exactly that. When it’s certain Sombra won’t reappear, Hana sprints the distance back to Mina. The orb floating above the unconscious girl’s chest disintegrates before she can reach it.

Hana tucks an arm under Mina’s neck, carefully lifting her into a sitting position. The readouts on her HUD appear automatically, but she ignores them in favor of checking her teammate’s pulse with her own hands. Someone hesitantly approaches. Hana looks blankly at the first person to address her in clumsy English.

“That way,” she replies when she realizes why they’re assuming she can’t understand Korean, gesturing toward the station— aware, suddenly, that everyone here thinks she knows what she’s doing. “Go that way. One line. Please.” Then: “Be careful?”

The woman nods, looking relieved. “Thank you,” she says. “Pink Ranger?”

Hana hesitates, then nods, dumbly. “Yeah.”

 _ > Security is on the way. They will be able to help your friend _ _  
_ _ > Stand by for assistance _

_Zeny?_ Hana watches a group of men in suits, then a small child with their parent, then a soldier— he looks like he’s barely any older than her, in full military camo, clearly on leave from mandatory service— walk past where she’s kneeling, all with openly awestruck expressions turned her way. _What do I do now? Is Mina gonna be okay?_

 _ > She will be fine, thanks to your efforts _ _  
_ _ > There is no need to worry. Zenyatta is with you _

The first group of rescue personnel that reaches her has a stretcher with them. It isn’t until one of the policemen salutes her that it really sinks in.

_I’m really a Ranger now, aren’t I?_

> _For the moment, yes. But you are not obligated to be_  
_ > You should send your friend to the hospital _  
_ > Right now, another matter requires your attention_

Hana flexes her hands, wanting for joysticks. A controller. Some reassurance that she’s in control, not as small as she feels. To anyone else, it might appear as if she were composing herself. _What is it?_

_ > Your other teammate._

* * *

 

The tunnel has gone completely silent, save the echoes of low chatter as civilians quickly evacuate and the hum of the ventilation fans begin chugging away again— so he hears it clearly when someone starts picking their way _back_ across the wreckage, climbing through two sets of derailed train cars.

Hurriedly, Lúcio sets Genji’s helmet aside, scanning his face and then his neck for some unarmored spot to check his pulse. Finding none, he tears the glove from his right hand, and holds one finger under Genji’s nose.

Without the visor to reflect it back at him, he can’t see the horror crawl across his own face.

Their unexpected visitor arrives.

Lúcio turns. Takes in the uniform. “Ranger?” he recognizes, absently, then looks at them more sharply. “Are you Genji’s brother?” he demands.

“What?” the other Ranger replies, holding up their hands. “No. I’m… Hana. Zenyatta, what’s happening?”

Whoever they are, they’ve got a link back to Zenyatta. Quickly, Lúcio shifts Genji to lie on the ground, flat on his back. “I need to get this off. Genji’s not breathing,” he says, fingers skittering over his armored chest, the plates molded to his ribcage, searching methodically but frantically for a way to remove it. “Hey, what do I need to do?” He doesn’t get a reply. When he glances over, they’re staring at Genji. “Hana?” he prompts, apprehensively.

Hana looks at him, then at the message window on her HUD.

 _ > Only another Ranger can do this _  
_ > Please put your hands on his chest and emblem _  
_ > On his belt, the Driver _  
_ > Quickly_

“I have to do it.” She shuffles forward, hands outstretched. Lúcio moves aside, but not far.

One over his chest, one on the buckle of his belt. For a beat, nothing; then suddenly, warmth. Like a flame she hadn’t known had been burning in her all along, fanning hot and high and suffusing her entire being, concentrating rapidly in her arms before passing out of her body to flow into Genji, her limbs serving as the conduit. He lays still for a few seconds longer before he jolts in place, gasping faintly— then gasping again, more loudly, chest heaving under Hana’s palm as he sucks in air.

His eyes fly open.

Lúcio sees his hand snap up, moving with the determination to _hurt—_ and diverts the grab with a firm grip around the wrist before he can manage to break Hana’s arm in misdirected self-defense. Genji’s initial panic shifts quickly to confusion when Lúcio leans into his field of view, his face a picture of relief.

“Lúcio?” he murmurs, brow furrowing as his eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Genji.” Lúcio exhales, unable to help the waver in his voice when he laughs, short and strained. “You’re back. Man, you really scared me!”

Frowning, Genji opens his mouth to respond, then notices the third member of their party. He immediately forgets what he was about to say. The Pink Ranger gives him a little wave and he stares, incredulity plain on his face. “Hana?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, vaguely, then glances toward Lúcio. “Lúcio?”

Lúcio nods. “That’s me.” To Genji, he extends a hand. “We’re alright, we’ll be fine. Are _you_ okay? How’re you feeling?”

Genji takes it, and stands. Once upright he disengages his armor, swallowing thickly as he regards the derailed carriages surrounding them, the cracked concrete walls and torn-up track. His eyes land on Hana last, taking in her uniform, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like I got hit by a train,” he says, a grimace turning the corners of his mouth.

“Ha,” Hana snorts, “you’re one to talk.”


	4. One Does Not Simply Join The Over-Watchers

How Lúcio manages to stay standing on his skates after _hours_ of being in them is a mystery, but he and Genji manage the trek out of the base’s elevator and into the hallway together— Genji’s steps dragging and slow while Lúcio glides unsteadily forward, refusing to lean on him more than necessary. 

Lúcio halts in front of his room, shoulders slack with exhaustion. “This is my stop.” 

Genji glances down the hall. “The med bay is just ahead,” he says, but allows Lúcio to detach from his side, letting the arm he’d curled around the smaller man’s back fall away without comment. 

“Thanks, man.” Lúcio claps a hand on his shoulder. The blades of his skates emit a low, strained hum as he moves away. “But I gotta get out of these first,” he says, “I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

“I’m more concerned about your injuries than mine,” Genji admits as he follows to the threshold of the room, putting a hand out to stop the door from sliding shut before Lúcio can make it through. He watches Lúcio shed his headset and gloves on the way to the bed. “I can bring some supplies here and save you the walk. Do you need—” 

A low, sharp hiss of breath. Lúcio sits heavily on the mattress, frozen halfway through an attempt to shrug out of his shirt.

Genji starts forward, then catches himself. “What’s wrong?” he asks instead. “Are you alright?”

Jaw flexing, Lúcio answers, “I’m good!” He peels the sweat-soaked linen back, pausing to catch his breath as he surveys his arms and chest. Under the cotton tank is a forest of bruises along one side of his body, and a handful of short, shallow scrapes draw lines down his forearms. There’s probably something going on with his shoulder too, judging by the unexpected twinge. “Ow,” he says.

“You’re…” Genji trails off, and when he looks up from assessing the other man’s injuries, the line of his brow is pinched. “I will be right back.”

“Actually,” Lúcio starts, fixing a sheepish look on the Ranger before he can dart out of sight, “could you grab something from my bag? Don’t think I can get back up in these.” He raps his knuckles against the metal shell of his skates, and when Genji finds the pack, hesitating after unzipping it, Lúcio grins. “My off-duty legs.”

Genji retrieves the prostheses, and Lúcio makes quick work of the latches on his skates before delicately shimmying out of the whole thing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Genji’s head politely turned away, observing the make of the lighter, aluminum pair. Eventually Lúcio sets his armor aside and sits up on his hands. 

Taking the cue, Genji passes the legs to him one at a time. “They’re well made,” he says.

“Yeah,” Lúcio murmurs, fitting them into place. “Thanks. Long story.”

Genji returns to the bag, setting it (and the clothes inside) within easy reach. He rubs at his neck as he straightens, glancing around the room. “I should give you some privacy.” A decisive nod. “Would you like something to change into?” 

“I have all my stuff,” Lúcio replies.

“I was thinking something without sleeves.” Genji tilts his head a fraction of a degree, gaze flickering briefly to Lúcio’s face, then the mottled bruising on his arms. “Easier to put on.”

He has a few of those, too, but Lúcio slumps where he sits, breathing shallowly to spare his ribs. “Okay,” he says after a moment, dragging a hand down his face. “If that’s alright with you. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I should only be gone a few minutes.” 

“Take your time. You should get yourself looked at too, get Zenyatta to do his thing.” He isn’t too tired to hear Genji’s steps falter on the way out, implicitly confirming his hunch. Lúcio smiles wryly, staring down at his prosthetic feet. “I think,” he declares as he stands, tolerating the aches, “I’m gonna shower.”

In the doorway, Genji lingers one last time, concern in his expression. “Do you need assistance?”

The shoulder is still throbbing. Lúcio stops himself from shaking his head. “I’ll manage! Text you when I’m done.”

A nod, and Genj is gone. The door to his room slides shut, and Lúcio blows an unsteady breath past his lips before reaching into his bag to collect his comb and conditioner.

* * *

A pair of double doors sits at the end of the hall opposite the control center. Zenyatta’s head swivels toward them at the sound of approaching footsteps, and a golden orb attaches itself to Genji the instant he steps into the med bay. 

“Master,” Genji begins.

“Genji,” Zenyatta replies, herding him inside with a determined hand at his shoulder. The spheres circling him widen temporarily to allow the Ranger within their orbit. “Where is Lúcio?”

“Resting. I need to be back later with a— Master, please,” Genji says, attempting to resist the insistent push to sit him atop the nearest exam table. He fails miserably; the warmth of a harmony orb never fails to lull him into calm. “I only wanted to check our supplies.”

A cool, metal hand gently turns his cheek. Genji stares resignedly into Zenyatta’s sensors as the omnic asks, “What is it you are looking for?”

“A basic first-aid kit. Not for me,” Genji clarifies quickly, “for Lúcio.” His eyes flicker to the side, where the orb attached to him bobs slowly, relatively inert: there are no injuries for it to actively heal. “I'm fine.”

Humming thoughtfully, Zenyatta leans back to continue the examination, prodding at his collarbone and sternum. “How are you feeling?”

Genji frowns down at his chest. “I am fine,” he repeats.

“I would prefer to run diagnostics to be certain,” Zenyatta says, turning away— holding up a hand, when Genji tries to follow, “wait here.” 

He makes several stops around the bay, intermittently making sure his patient is still sitting where he’d left him. Genji had made of point of throwing out the more esoteric medicines once each passed date of expiration, and with no one to need them they had never needed replacing. Most of the cabinets are empty but the ones that Zenyatta opens remain well-stocked. 

“Now,” Zenyatta announces as he returns to the exam table carrying a large, zippered pouch, “I will run the diagnostics.”

Genji stares at the kit, then the hand being offered him. His master’s every movement is deliberately placid. “If I refuse?” 

“Then I will not,” Zenyatta responds calmly, but he doesn’t move.

“What happened when Sombra attacked me?” Genji wraps his fingers around Zenyatta’s wrist, using the point of contact to anchor himself. His body isn’t hurt— only tired in the way that strenuous activity and need of rest would normally affect it. He’s been under the impression he had escaped more or less unscathed. “I only remember that she did something to my armor, and I lost consciousness.”

Omnics don’t hesitate nearly as long as humans do. Zenyatta turns his head toward him half a beat slower than usual— but it’s enough. “My link to you was severed temporarily,” he admits. “I do not know for certain what happened until the moment Hana activated her orb. The readings I received of your state through her were—” Another pause, as he shifts through his words. “There was very little time to deliberate. I was forced to direct her to resuscitate you.”

“Was I—” Genji stops, and reminds himself to breathe. Above him, the orb has activated, and thrums gently. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No need to apologize.” Zenyatta’s hand has warmed from sustained contact. He squeezes Genji’s softer fingers, and chuckles. “We were all quite alarmed, but I am relieved you are still with us.” More soberly, he continues, “Sombra has always been a difficult adversary, but it seems her abilities have advanced greatly since we last saw her. She should not have been able to impair you as she did.”

Genji searches his memory— mostly in vain, but he does remember the pulse of violet light he’d last seen before blacking out and waking to the aftermath of a literal trainwreck. Lúcio mentioned an EMP in Sombra’s arsenal, but an EMP alone can't take out Ranger tech. “Did it affect my orb?” he asks.

“I have reason to believe so, though I cannot yet confirm it. The fact we lost connection at all,” Zenyatta points out, “warrants concern.”

Genji’s lips press into a line. “Security on base was compromised as well.” They _had_ gained a Ranger out of it, but… “Could that be her doing?”

“The timing,” Zenyatta agrees quietly, “is inauspicious. My initial checks have not revealed any connection, but I will look into it further.” He closes his free palm over Genji’s hand, where it still lays over his wrist. “For now, I simply wish to ascertain if you are well.”

The Ranger finally agrees, sighing. He digs the heel of his palm into his eyes. “I understand. Thank you.” 

“Of course.”

“How long will this take?”

“Not long. It will be a few hours before Hana can return to base, as well. I requested she join us for a debriefing.” Zenyatta notes the subtle darkening of Genji’s expression at the mention of their newest Ranger, but allows that topic to move to a backburner. He gathers Genji’s hands in his own. “There is no need to worry,” he quips in a much less serious tone, “we will be finished in time for you to attend to Lúcio, dear sparrow.”

“Alright,” Genji says. A moment later, once he’s properly processed what was just said, his eyes go wide. “Oh. No, that is— that is not a priority.”

“Oh,” answers Zenyatta. “I see.”

“I mean, Lúcio is a priority, but not— I only offered to assist him. With his… the kit.” Flustered, Genji stops himself, clearing his throat. “Excuse me.” Stiffly, he tucks his face into his shoulder to be polite, and coughs again.

Zenyatta waits, still holding both his hands. “Whenever you are ready,” he prompts, a cheeky pitch in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“… yes. Thank you.” The line of Genji’s throat bobs when he straightens, his ears bright red. “I am ready now. Please, take your time.”

* * *

Some time later, the system alerts them to an arrival from Busan.

While Zenyatta greets Hana in the control center, Genji shakes himself out of a meditative daze and walks to his room. He finds an old stash of clothes in the corner of the same drawer as before, a pile of worn, neatly folded sleeveless tees. The softest one is a faded royal blue, an old favorite. He tucks it under his arm next to the kit.

Still no message. His footsteps take him past his bathroom door; he slows, then stops, glancing at the mirror inside. Nothing to do about the dark smudges under his eyes, but the matte sheen of concrete dust still in his hair shakes out with a vigorous sweep of his hand. A moment later he ducks out of the bathroom after shedding his jacket and hoodie, running a towel over his face.

Perched cross-legged on the room’s only chair, Lúcio looks up from his phone at the double knock on his door. “It’s open,” he calls, and at the sight of Genji’s head poking in, smiles. “Hey,” he quips, moving to stand, “good timing! I was just gonna text.” 

Genji motions for him to sit again. The desk is small, like the rest of the room, but everything he brought will fit. “Water?” he offers.

“Yes,” Lúcio says, and gingerly catches the bottle he’s tossed.

As it turns out, a calculated move; by the time Lúcio finishes his drink, Genji has already beat him to the kit, waiting with ice pack in hand to apply to his shoulder. First aid is second nature by this point in his career: disinfectant and a cotton ball for the open scrapes, a light layer of antibiotic sealed with gauze and tape to follow. Next, a box of cooling patches, the long strips smoothed over the worst of the bruises. He ends up going through the entire box as Lúcio watches, patiently allowing him to work.

He runs out of salonpas packets before all the injuries are patched, but before he can address it Lúcio stretches his legs out with a visible wince, turning back the hems of his shorts. Nonplussed, Genji watches him extract a squeeze tube of burn gel from the kit, wondering if he’d missed something— then catches sight of the long, blistering welt across Lúcio’s thighs. 

“Skates got hacked,” Lúcio explains, preempting the inevitable question, “internal cooling shut off.” He opens his mouth to add something else, but stops at the expression on the Ranger’s face.

Genji pushes off the table. “Let me get some more gauze.”

“No,” Lúcio sighs, calmly holding his arm out to bar the Ranger from leaving. His rotating chair squeaks with the momentum. “Stop. It’s fine, Genji. Not the first time. Pass me some painkillers, though?”

Reluctant, but too mindful of the gauze covering the limb in his way to really contest, Genji relents, returning Lúcio’s raised brows with a displeased look.

Satisfied, Lúcio drops his arm. “Speaking of which,” he says, glancing up from applying the gel, “did you get yourself looked at yet?”

Genji pops open a tiny container with his thumbnail and shakes a dose of pills into his hand. “Yes,” he answers, taking an extra moment to uncap another bottle of water before explaining. “Master Zenyatta can heal Rangers through resonance. The orbs that give us our powers are able to augment our recovery.” He palms the plastic cap, fiddling with it instead of setting it aside, and hands over the bottle and the pills. “I am fine,” he says, for the third time that day. “Only sorry we cannot extend the courtesy to you. How did you know?”

Lúcio throws the medicine back and washes it down. “It was just a hunch,” he admits, inspecting his thighs, then his neatly patched ribs and forearms, “but don’t sell yourself short.” He smiles, rubbing his injured shoulder. “I’m all patched up thanks to you.” 

Genji watches him set the empty bottle aside, and offers him a towel. “You protected me from the train when I was unconscious. I should be the one thanking you.”

“Call it even, then. We’re a team now, aren’t we?” When Genji hums, conceding the point, Lúcio bumps him with his elbow. “I know you would’ve done the same for me.”

Genji says nothing at first, regarding him thoughtfully as he returns everything to the kit. Finally, he clears his throat. “We should check in with the others. Are you hungry?”

An incredulous raise of the brows. Lúcio puts the towel aside and grins, holding out a hand. “You know I am.”

Genji takes it. Lifts him to his feet. “That’s good,” he says, cracking a smile to match. “We always have pizza.”

* * *

When the two of them finally shuffle into the kitchen, Hana is already there. Two piping-hot pizzas, a single bottle of protein supplement for Genji (open, as if to spare him the effort of twisting its top off), and an ice-cold liter of cherry soda are laid out on the table. It’s been hours since the fight, and after assisting evacuees, speaking to the police, then decompressing with a shower and first aid after, Lúcio’s stomach rumbles audibly at the sight.

“They are here,” he hears Zenyatta say, catching Hana’s attention.

Noticing Genji first, Hana sets her glass down to greet him— then freezes when she catches sight of Lúcio, visorless and out of his skates. “Wait,” she practically yells, eyes wide as saucers as she leaps out of her seat, “You’re Lúcio?”

Before Genji can comment on her volume, Lúcio halts mid-step beside him. 

Ah, Lúcio thinks, I know that tone. “Uhh, yeah?” he asks, dramatically mirroring her shock. “That's my name?”

“I know you!” she gasps, gesturing with her hands. “You’re that guy! You play the piano and stuff!”

“Oh man,” Lúcio laughs, playing along, “you got me! I am that guy. I love piano and stuff!” 

Recognizing the teasing for what it is (and having interacted with many of her own fans over the years) Hana scoffs, reeling back her excitement to pout. “Veeery funny,” she drawls, hands on her hips. “Aw, but you looked way taller in your posters though. Is that why I didn’t recognize you before?”

“Wh— hey!” Lúcio sputters. “I can't help it if I'm cuter in person!”

“Let’s,” Genji cuts in, “sit down first. The food will get cold. Thank you for joining us, Hana.” He looks at the table, where Zenyatta is busy setting two extra sets of cutlery beside a colander of freshly washed fruit, and frowns. “Grapes?”

“A gift,” Zenyatta explains, drifting to Genji’s side, “courtesy of Miss Song.”

Lúcio blinks. 

“ _Song?_ ” he and Genji repeat at the same time.

A delighted, smug smile spreads over Hana’s face. “Oh, so you’ve heard of me?” She unsubtly tosses her hair over her shoulder, still grinning.

“The pizza,” Genji interjects again, a little too quickly this time. Hana throws him a look, but acquiesces. Lúcio looks back at Genji, mouthing, _Hana Song, can you believe it?_ as he goes to the table and pulls the chair next to her.

“Feel free to help yourself,” Zenyatta instructs, setting a reassuring hand on Genji’s shoulder. Genji turns to him, lips pressed into a line; but he sighs, and— having noticed the strain in the place where his master’s palm rests— allows the unease that had settled over him to ebb away. Zenyatta pats him gently, satisfied, then moves aside to allow him to join the others. 

Genji takes the seat on Lúcio’s other side and immediately reaches for his drink. Lúcio taps his arm with the back of his hand to catch his attention, offering him a paper plate; there’s a question in the gesture, but Genji simply gives him a tired smile and a shake of the head, downing the entire single serving of his supplement.

Lúcio raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask.

Hana… asks. “You’re not hungry?” she says, frowning when Genji declines the slice she offers him— twice. She looks at the plate in her hand, then gives it to Lúcio instead. Too excited to pay any attention to her own food (a slice of plain cheese pizza), she leans forward in her seat. “So if you’re famous and an Over-Watcher,” she begins, looking at Lúcio, “and _I’m_ famous and an Over-Watcher, then this guy must be famous too, right?” Her gaze swings to Genji, scrutinizing him. “Maybe an actor? A b-list J-pop idol?”  
“The Over-Watchers have disbanded,” answers Genji, his voice deliberately even.

Lúcio shares a look with him, cocking his head to indicate the adhesive band-aid still stuck to Hana’s elbow. Genji sits back in his seat with a sigh. 

“I am not an actor,” he grumbles. “Only a civilian.”

“Oh. Lame.”

Lúcio coughs loudly, futilely trying to mask his laughter. “He’s been a Ranger awhile though,” he tells Hana, humoring her. “That’s pretty famous by itself.”

She hums. “Right, the Green Ranger. How long?” she presses, staring at Genji. “Were you on the original team or the second one? It’s gotta be the second one, you don't look like you're _that_ much older than me.” Then a pause, as her eyes narrow. “Or are you?”

The look Genji gives her could cut diamonds.

“Fine, don’t answer. Lúcio,” Hana says much more politely, turning to him next, “which Ranger are you? Blue? Ooh wait, red, right?”

“Uh,” Lúcio says, forced to pause before biting into one of his slices of pizza (pepperoni, italian sausage, ham and bacon), “Actually, I don’t know yet! I only got here yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Hana exclaims. “Wait, what do you mean? What about your suit?”

“The orb you used to transform,” Genji reminds her, crossing his arms. “It was for him.”

It takes a moment, but eventually realization— and guilt— dawns over Hana’s face. “Oh, right, because he went ahead.” She winces, remembering Genji’s impatience with her from hours ago. Then she scowls, remembering in more detail Genji’s impatience with her from hours ago. “Well, how was I supposed to know? Maybe if I’d _known_ you were the Over-Watchers…”

“Why would I have told you that?” Genji retorts. “You were a random civilian. Also, I am not technically an Over-Watcher, or even a Ranger.”

Lúcio swallows hastily when Hana turns a bewildered look on him, setting his pizza down to reach for a napkin. “It’s true,” he confirms, wiping the grease from his mouth. “He’s a Rider.”

Hana scowls, now mirroring Genji’s defensive posture, arms crossed and all. “You’re not an Over-Watcher?”

“No,” Genji says.

“Then what are you?” she demands.

“I just _said_ —”

Lúcio snorts. When Genji looks his way he avoids his gaze, desperately trying to contain his laughter. 

“What?” Genji asks, not entirely sure he wants to know.

With some effort, Lúcio finally looks at him and says, as evenly as he can manage, “ _Over-Rider_.”

“Please don’t,” Genji grimaces, expression pained. 

Still chuckling, Lúcio raises both hands— denying all accusations— and casually shoves the rest of his pizza into his mouth. 

Hana stops snickering just long enough to stick her tongue out at Genji, then quickly turns away when he catches her doing it. “I’m sorry about the orb, by the way,” she says to Lúcio. “We didn’t deliver it in time, and then I accidentally used it…”

Lúcio waves a good-natured hand. “It’s fine, you didn’t know. And besides, everything turned out fine in the end, right?” His voice is only slightly muffled.

Hana presses her lips together, watching him chew behind his fist. “We should let you eat, huh.”

“Yeah,” Lúcio grins, “yeah.”

“The next orb will be ready in seven days,” Zenyatta says, setting a glass of water beside Genji’s hand. He floats, cross-legged and serene, staying close. “If you are interested in staying with us, Hana, it will be better to wait. Unforeseen complications aside, I am glad you are here and unharmed.”

Genji sighs, and reaches for the glass. “Seven days… ” 

Lúcio gives them a thumbs-up. “I can wait a week.”

The delay doesn't sit well with him, but there's nothing they can do. “You are welcome to stay on base for the duration,” Genji says.

“I would be happy to provide a temporary access code,” Zenyatta adds. “Once you are a Ranger, you will gain a permanent one. Nevertheless, you are welcome here any time.”

“You guys all live here?” Hana asks incredulously, glancing between the three of them. “There’s rooms and stuff? That's so cool!”

“Yes,” Genji deadpans, “almost as if it is a real Over-Watchers base.”

She immediately gives him a dirty look. 

“I think each room has its own bathroom too?” says Lúcio, taking it upon himself to fill the silence. “Real convenient.”

“Oooh.” Hana brightens considerably at the possibility of having her own official Over-Watchers dorm. A whole room _and_ a bathroom to herself? Already leagues better than the setup at the team house, and MEKA’s was one of the nicer ones. She claps her hands together, ecstatic. “I can’t believe I just met you, and we’re _both_ gonna be Over-Watchers.”

“Hey,” Lúcio shoots back, picking up his second slice of pizza, “I’m right there with you! I never thought I’d meet Hana Song in an Over-Watcher base. And you’re even a Ranger already. Ahead of the curve!”

“It was a lot of luck,” Hana says, but the smile on her face is far less modest. “Whoa,” she realizes, belatedly. “You’re right, huh? Everyone else retired.”

Lúcio watches Hana shift in her chair, one of her hands picking away at the edge of her plate again. “Hey, Genji. I kept meaning to ask,” he says, methodically dismantling a cluster of grapes to pop into his mouth, “What actually happens when a Ranger retires? Do you take the orb back for the next person?”

Genji glances at Zenyatta. “I believe I can answer that question,” Zenyatta answers. “Each orb forms a personal bond with its Ranger, and when that bond is dissolved, the orb also fades. New Rangers may see traces of previous members who share their color, as they draw from the same source of power, but the orb itself is always entirely new.” 

“So that's why it gave me a cannon,” Hana comments to herself.

Lúcio looks at her. “A _what?_ ”

Genji frowns. “You stopped the train with that?” 

“No, that was something else!” Hana corrects quickly, eyes wide as she frantically shakes her hands. “Like, a bigger thing. Nobody got hurt, though!”

Zenyatta chuckles. “Yes, thanks to your quick thinking. Over-Watchers have many obligations to fulfill, foremost of them being the protection of civilians. It is not an easy burden. It is best that all Rangers carry it voluntarily, with the option to walk away from it for good.”

“So if we want to back out,” Lúcio surmises, “that’s it. One-way exit.”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” he says. Could explain why Genji was still here, carrying on for years after his team had dissolved. Retiring wasn’t just leaving the job— it meant leaving the base, and Zenyatta, behind.

“You’ve seen for yourself what Talon is capable of,” he hears Genji add, his voice audibly strained. “Associating with us carries great risk. Sometimes, the pressure can be too much.”  
Hana glances at Lúcio. “I think we could do it,” she says. 

“Worth a shot,” Lúcio agrees mildly. “ _If_ you know what you're getting yourself into.”

“But think about it,” she says, looking around the table, “we’re the only people left. It sounds like you gotta re-form the team. If not just anybody can join, I might as well stick around for awhile until you find more Rangers. Makes sense, right?”

Lúcio rubs his chin, considering. A pro VR-gamer as a Ranger… he'd be lying if he said he couldn't see it, though the gap in relevant experience is becoming extremely apparent. “I’m not against giving it a try,” he decides, earning himself a beatific grin.

Genji declines to comment, taking another sip of his water.

“As it has been since the moment the orb paired with you, the decision is entirely yours to make.” Zenyatta folds his hands together. “Adversity is an opportunity for change. Sometimes, for the better.”

“Then if you'll have me,” Hana grins, flashing him a v-sign, “I'm in.”

The sound of Genji’s sigh is piercing. “Don’t you have a career to maintain?” he asks finally, leveling a skeptical look her way. “This is not a matter to commit to lightly.” Hana falls silent and still, staring back at him with an equally unhappy expression as he goes on, “You may be called on at any time to attend to emergencies halfway across the world. The safety of everyone you know is at stake.”

Lúcio regards him curiously, eyebrows raised at the sudden change in demeanor.

Before Hana can muster an answer, Zenyatta speaks, his hand falling conspicuously on Genji’s shoulder. “Pardon my interruption,” he says, pointedly addressing the group. “The consolidated footage from this incident has just finished processing in the control center. Might I steal Genji a moment to review it with me?”

“Yeah, alright,” says Lúcio immediately, recognizing the out.

“Sure,” Hana adds after, following his cue.

Genji’s jaw flexes, but he nods, and stands. “Yes, of course.” His chair scrapes back as he stands, his hands curling loosely into agitated fists at his sides. “Excuse me,” he says, turning to follow Zenyatta out of the kitchen. 

“Later,” Lúcio calls after them.

* * *

“I get the feeling,” Hana comments after a moment, “he’s not taking me very seriously.”

Chewing slowly, Lúcio polishes off the last of his slice, crust and all. “Who, Genji?” he asks, pulling his gaze from the hallway entrance. Genji had definitely been serious about something.

He reaches for one of the pizza pies, but Hana beats him to it, plating and sliding another serving his way before he can insist on doing it himself. “Yeah, him.” She looks at her own, half-eaten portion with a frown. “He’s not really… I mean, I thought Rangers were all…” 

Lúcio attempts to fold his new slice in half. All of the italian sausage bits fall off, and he purses his lips. “All…?”

She chews on her lip, returning his open, curious look with hesitance. “Nicer? Not so rude?” she says, eventually. “I can’t believe he’s the actual _Green Ranger_.”  
A beat.

Lúcio laughs. Hana throws him an indignant look, but he only keeps laughing, shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s just,” he says, “I forgot! You were a big Over-Watchers fan back in the day, right? I remember that from somewhere. Wasn’t Genji your favorite?”

“The _Green Ranger_ was my favorite. Genji is just— some guy!” she denies, more embarrassed than offended. “He was just some person I was supposed to give something to because Zenyatta helped me out, I didn't know he was…” She gestures agitatedly with her hands. “I met him where I was supposed to, with the orb. And okay, maybe I should have given it to him right away, but I needed him to get back to Korea— long story— and halfway to the hospital he tried to take off!”

“Hmm.” Lúcio, who had been listening intently to the story, crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. 

“What?”

“Nothing, keep going,” he says. When she stares at him expectantly, he gives in with a sheepish grin. “I keep noticing that you act _exactly_ like you do in your streams. It’s just funny, that’s all!”

Hana blows her bangs out of her face. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” she says, eyeing him back. “You seem pretty much the same as you are in concert too? Really down to earth.”

He leans over the table, suddenly serious. “You’ve been to one of my concerts?” 

“No, sorry. I've only seen fan recordings…” She laughs at the sight of him drawing back with a wounded expression, clutching both his hands over his chest. “What!” Hana exclaims, “It’s not like you’ve ever been to one of my fan meetings, either!”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “You know what, that’s fair. Oh, wait!” He straightens, leaning forward again. “My next gig is in five days. If you’re free, why don’t you come?”

Hana gasps. “For real? Is that okay?” When Lúcio makes an affirmative sound, she pulls out her phone to check the date. “Maybe I can make it. It’s in New York, right?” Something occurs to her, and she looks up. “How’d you go from your show to the back of a pizza shop?”

“Long story.” Greatly paraphrasing, he explains, “I met Genji first, by chance. We teamed up in New York to handle another Talon victim.” A shrug. “It went well, so, I volunteered to help out.”

Hana’s eyebrows go up. “A teamup! So you know how to fight? Wow, playing music by day and bringing in bad guys by night, huh? You really live up to the hype,” she teases. Suddenly, she smirks. “Do you know what your Korean fans called you last month on your stop in Incheon? . _Lu-mantic_. Isn’t that cute?”

“Like, romantic?” he guesses, amused. She nods, grinning with the air of a celebrity too used to the antics of her own fanclub, and he laughs, giving her a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you. You’re too kind. I think we can ask Zenyatta to pull up the footage from mine and Genji’s fight,” he adds, adjusting his headband, “but I’m still getting used to this place, so no guarantees we won’t get lost finding him.”

Hana takes a bite of pizza, gulping it down with a sip of her drink. “We can do it later, then. You gotta tell me how that went!” 

“Sure, if you tell me more about your Ranger origin story.”

“Wow, it actually sounds cool when you say it like that,” she jokes. She picks up her pizza again, then slowly sets it back down. “Can you tell me something though? Was that guy,”— a pointed look toward the hallway— “ _this_ rude to you when you met him too?”

Lúcio blinks. “Not really?” Popping the last segment of crust into his mouth, he chews slowly. “I thought he was pretty chill. He did seem tense earlier, though.”

“Hmm,” Hana says.

Lúcio slouches, resting his chin on his knuckles. He waits for Hana to look over, then asks, “What?”

“Nothing.” Hana chews on her lip, tasting pizza sauce and grease. “I guess it makes sense Genji doesn’t like me very much. He’s nice to everybody except me.” Catching the immediate doubt that scrunches Lúcio’s face, she reiterates, “He _is_. It’s so obvious! He’s so nice to Zenyatta. And you!”

“What?” Lúcio repeats in a completely different tone of voice, mentally sifting through his (very brief list of) interactions with the Ranger in case he’d missed something important. He comes up mostly empty— Genji’d always seemed professional to him, affable and polite from the start. And in Zenyatta’s company, he remained just as pleasant. “No?”

Then again, he’d never really had someone to compare his impression with.

“Lúcio.” The expression on Hana’s face is one part sympathetic, one part matter-of-fact. “You’re really nice. You’re famous, and good at music, and probably really good at fighting, and you volunteered to help save the world like it’s no big deal. Just a minute ago, you made a very bad joke, and Genji almost laughed.” A huff. “I broke into his base, and took your orb from under his nose, and ordered him around. You saw how he reacted when I said I’m staying! He doesn’t like me. It’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t say it like that,” Lúcio says, brow furrowing as he glances over his shoulder. “Genji strikes me as the kinda guy who’d be real polite to someone he dislikes, you know what I mean? Also, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My jokes are amazing.”

“He’s polite to Zenyatta,” Hana mutters. Her eyes widen in mock realization. “Poor guy. Someone should tell him.”

“Okay, now that’s a stretch.” Lúcio chuckles, taking the joke in stride. He folds what’s left of the slice on his plate in half, small enough to consume in one bite. “But you get what I’m saying, right?”

“I think I do? It’s whatever though, I’m still staying whether he likes it or not.”

“That’s fair,” he says, passing her some grapes. Hana makes a good a point, though; it’s absolutely in the Over-Watchers’ interests to keep the few Rangers (and Ranger candidate) they have. Even in the best case scenario, recruiting a fourth Ranger will take at least another two weeks. Meanwhile, two civilians have already been targeted within two days— and those are the victims they know about.

Genji definitely isn’t taken with their newest Ranger, but he also doesn’t seem the type to be so superficial, though Lúcio has to admit to himself that he’s hardly qualified to assume; as well as they’ve gotten along so far, he's only known the Ranger a grand total of about three days.

Lúcio takes a drink of soda, watching Hana tear the crust from her pizza. “Hey, so, what’s your opinion of him?” he asks, trying for nonchalant. “You don’t like him at all?”

She keeps chewing, but fixes him with an inquisitive frown. “He seems like he knows what he’s doing…?” she says, looking conflicted about paying the compliment. “Or he acts like it, anyway. Like he knows everything and I don’t. But he takes stuff way too seriously.” Hana looks at the grapes left on her plate. “I don’t _hate_ him.”

“Call me optimistic,” Lúcio suggests, deciding to be satisfied with her answer, “but I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” she grumbles. “I was really trying to be nice earlier too. How come he didn’t eat anything? He didn’t even have pizza. Did he eat before I got here? By himself? I bet he did.” A mutter: “Jerk.”

Wordlessly, Lúcio motions for Hana to give him her glass. She holds it out for him instead, steadying it with both hands while he pours. “You guys got off on the wrong foot,” he says, filling his own glass next. “Happens.”

“Yeah, I guess.” That frown returns to her face. “Anyway, why’d you ask?”

Time to change the subject. Lúcio stalls by mirroring her expression back at her, hoping the hint of moroseness he hears in her voice isn’t just apathy. “You sure you aren’t just disappointed because he was your hero growing up or something?”

Hana stops chewing. Slowly she turns to stare at him, so he can fully witness the horrified realization in her eyes. “No?” she says.

Just what he was hoping for. “Come on, Hana,” he drawls, elbowing her lightly. “You can tell me! We’re both gonna be Rangers, remember?” 

Mouth agape, Hana struggles for words— an excuse, a plausible denial, _something_ — while her eyes gradually transform into twin beacons of desperation. Lúcio fights the urge to laugh. 

“Want me to talk to him about it?” he offers.

Finally, she bursts. “No!” she squawks, “That’s banned! That’s not allowed!”

“You sure? I think he’d understand if he knew you’re a fan—”

“Absolutely no way!” Hana declares, settling into an exaggerated grump to spare herself the embarrassment. “Don’t you dare!”

“Okay, okay!” he laughs, internally relieved at her distraction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Genji your big secret.”

* * *

“There is something,” Zenyatta says, drawing to a stop in front of Genji’s room, “weighing heavily on you.”

At his urging, the Ranger punches in his code. He stalks inside with Zenyatta floating at his flank, pacing twice around the room’s perimeter before finally facing the omnic. “It’s nothing important, Master.”

Blatantly untrue. Zenyatta studies the expression on his face. “Whatever it is, you are taking it out on Hana.” The change in his tone catches Genji’s attention, exactly as he had known it would; he’s rarely so brisk, inclined as he is to lead his student to a conclusion rather than state it outright. That he’s made an exception _should_ catch his attention.

Genji inhales deeply, looking inward, forcing his posture to loosen. “She should not have been involved at all,” he says eventually, meeting Zenyatta’s gaze. He turns away again from that steady, unwavering presence, facing the wall instead. “Now Lúcio is hurt, and we must wait another week for his orb. If I hadn’t—”

“If _I_ had not sent Hana to meet you with the orb,” Zenyatta interrupts, “it would not have missed Lúcio. Many things did not go according to plan today, but the miscommunication does not lie on one party,” he chides. “I am sorry.”

“It is not your fault, Master,” Genji says immediately— then stops himself, having proved Zenyatta’s point. Relenting with a long, heavy sigh, he backs up against his desk, arms crossed. “She is too young for this,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. 

“You were active much younger than Miss Song,” Zenyatta reminds him.

“I was trained,” Genji emphasizes. “And after what happened today, it’s obvious that even that is not enough. She is only a civilian. The risks are enormous.”

A tilt of the omnic’s head. The orbs around his neck hardly waver. “Is that all?”

Instead of answering, Genji paces across the room again, turning in front of his bed to sit heavily on the edge of his mattress. 

“Sombra,” Zenyatta guesses, at length. “You are afraid.”

“Talon did not have anything like that before.” Genji closes his eyes. Once a Rider herself, Sombra had always been somewhat of a loose cannon, assisting and hindering the Over-Watchers as it suited her. Her calling card— a purple skull— was still infamous in its own right, to those who knew it. “If Sombra is with them now…”

Zenyatta pauses, the lights on his forehead flashing in a familiar pattern as he runs a series of simulations. “I will contact Winston,” is his conclusion after nearly two seconds. “A second look at our affected systems will benefit us. And he will be able to improve shielding for your essential functions, as our equipment is not suited for the task.”

“They may have other advantages we don’t understand. They must, if they can use these discord orbs to control civilians.” Genji sighs, dragging a hand down his face, over his mouth. “Master,” he says, “what if the Over-Watchers aren’t the answer?”

A short silence, quiet but for the steady whir of Zenyatta’s circuitry.

Finally, decisively, Zenyatta speaks. “I have never believed the Over-Watchers to be a whole solution. A fraction of one,” he says, as Genji looks to him, “a path to one, perhaps. Our efforts have not been, and will not be, in vain. We are not alone in this fight.”

Genji’s gaze is distant. “Maybe,” he murmurs, “it would be better if we were.”

Admonishingly: “Genji.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” The Ranger shakes himself, mussing his hair. “I must be tired!” The sleeve of his shirt falls back with the action, and he tugs it to his wrist again, balefully regarding the dull, metallic glint of the implants in his skin. “You are right, Master. Hana is not to blame for my frustration.” He sighs. “Adjusting to new teammates will take some time.”

“I, for one, am very glad to have the opportunity.” Zenyatta looks on as Genji kicks off his shoes and socks, setting them aside for a pair of slippers. “While you were asleep,” the omnic continues softly, “I spent many years alone. It is good to see the base so lively again.”

Safe in the confines of his room, Genji relaxes. Flexing his bare toes, he takes a slow, measured breath, nodding minutely. “I feel the same.”

Zenyatta’s head tilts. There’s amusement in the subtle action, the set of his shoulders. “I believe some sleep would benefit you greatly,” he declares, moving for the light switch. “The footage can wait until you are rested.”

Genji stares as the room dims to a comfortable darkness, and then he stares some more. “You were trying to get me to rest all along,” he accuses.

“Oh,” Zenyatta sighs, utterly unrepentant. “It seems my plan is revealed.”

* * *

A shower and a half-hour nap does, in fact, leave Genji significantly more optimistic. He makes his way back to the control center, drifting toward the familiar sound effects from the base’s Tekken XI machine. 

Pausing in the doorway, Genji crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the jamb. Lúcio, playing a critical-health Marshall Law against Hana’s Panda, groans as she KOs him and finishes their match 3 to 0. Genji flashes the back of Lúcio’s head a sympathetic grimace; Hana’s notorious penchant for choosing characters by random selection in TITAN’S DEEP seems to translate to other games as well.

Zenyatta pulls his attention from the contenders at the console joysticks as the Ranger approaches, waving cheerfully. “Welcome back,” he says.

Lúcio spins on his heel, grateful for the distraction. “Hey,” he calls, greeting him with a smile. “You’re up!”

Genji’s attention naturally drifts to his arms, the bandages still plastered neatly to his body; Lúcio is still moving with none of his usual fluid ease. Privately, he reminds himself to pick up that second roll of gauze. “I’m up,” Genji echoes, holding up a hand. He draws close enough to put a hand on Lúcio’s elbow. “I wanted to speak with Hana,” he says. “If you need any rest…”

Lúcio inhales deeply as he glances back at Hana, briefly listing against Genji’s side when the movement makes him waver on his feet. “Yeah, man, I'm wiped.” He nudges him in the ribs next, crossing his arms. “You’re gonna go easy on her right?”

Hana is standing right beside them. She raises her brows, and Genji makes a noncommittal sound. “Good night, Lúcio.”

Lúcio leaves them both with a meaningful look, brow quirked. “Yeah, g’night!”

On Hana’s other side, Zenyatta returns Lúcio’s parting salute with a jaunty wave. “When you are finished speaking with Genji,” he reminds her, pulling her attention from the console before she can focus on it again, “I can show you to your room, if you would like. I will be in the kitchen until then.”

Only when the omnic disappears around the corner does Hana finally turn fully to face Genji, her lips pressed into a wary line as she shifts her weight between her feet. “What did you want to talk about?” she asks, her tone painstakingly polite.

Genji watches her clasp her hands behind her back. With no small amount of effort, he suppresses the urge to cross his arms, keeping his posture open and unthreatening with his hands on his hips instead. 

“The coming months,” he begins slowly, “will more dangerous than what you have already experienced. I don’t want you to be afraid, but it is important that you understand.” 

“I know,” Hana says, wondering where this is going. 

“Ideally, there would have been a full team to welcome you. As it is, it will be difficult to know if we will ever have a full roster again.” Genji rubs his neck, fingers running along the small hairs on his nape. He looks around the room, point made; the control center is empty but for the two of them. “I wish you could have joined us under better circumstances.” 

“Okay,” she answers with a wry twist to her lips. “Thanks!”

At least, Genji decides, she certainly isn’t lacking in conviction. “If this becomes too much for you,” he tells her, echoing Zenyatta’s earlier words, “you have no obligation to stay.”

Hana sighs. “I know you think I’m not cut out for this,” she says, as understanding as she is bored of the reminder, “and that I might drag everyone down. But if I can help even a little, I want to.” She crosses her arms over her chest, decision made. “Talon targeted my friend! There’s no way I’m letting that slide.”

Her expression doesn’t change— the same clear-eyed determination is in her eyes as it had been in Lúcio’s, when he had volunteered himself. Genji breaks the staredown first, looking toward the ceiling in a visible show of capitulation. “Fine,” he sighs, “I understand.”

Silence, as Hana’s foot taps an agitated rhythm against the floor, the slow furrowing of her brow making it clear she isn’t satisfied with the half-hearted concession she’s been given. “I have a question,” she demands, suddenly. 

That’s expected. “Ask your question.”

“True or false?” Before Genji can open his mouth to object, she barrels on. “You,” she accuses, narrowing her eyes, “want me to quit being a Ranger.”

A grimace. As good as a verbal answer in itself. “What makes you say that?” he hedges.

“True,” she repeats, “or false?” 

Genji stares at her for a long moment, visibly deliberating what to say. Then: “Why would I be happy about losing a Ranger.”

“Maybe if you don’t like them? If you don’t want them on your team?” Arms still crossed, she scuffs her foot against the ground. “Zenyatta mentioned it. He said usually, the existing Rangers get to decide who gets to be one. And that’s you. And him, technically. But mostly you.”

She isn’t wrong. “And that’s why you think…”

“That… you don’t like me?” she suggests, shoulders drawing up.

Genji sighs, deeply. “My frustration with you is not because I dislike you. And I do not _want_ you to quit.”

Hana gives him a skeptical look. “So you want me to stay?”

Irritated, Genji presses his lips together. 

Hana’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah, I knew it.”

“We can still work together,” Genji says. With a team as varied as the Over-Watchers, he hadn’t gotten along with every member even when they were active. It hadn’t mattered; above all else, the ability to complement and compensate for each others’ strengths and weaknesses was what determined their success or failure. 

Hana, doubtlessly, has the same experience in a different context. “Of course,” she answers, nodding. “We’re all team players here. I just have a lot of training to do. No big deal.”

“Exactly. Teamwork.”

“Right.” She nods decisively. “So, for the sake of teamwork, you’re gonna train me.”

“I,” Genji says, then blinks. “What?”

“You’re the only other Ranger right now, and I’ve never done any fighting in real life.” Hana’s lip quirks, her voice taking on a proud, smug tone. “It’s too bad Talon’s not an enemy team in TITAN’S DEEP,” she says, then stops, visibly catching herself. “Well, nevermind. Anyway, if it’s so dangerous, you should take responsibility for getting me up to speed. You _are_ the leader, aren’t you?”

Genji frowns, taking a step back as Hana moves toward him. “I never said--”

She cuts off his protest. “Zeny said I can stay here for the night,” Hana chirps, smacking him on the arm. Whirling on her heel, ponytail whipping around as she dashes for the living area, she cackles, “so we can start first thing the morning!”

* * *

TITAN’S DEEP’s victory theme jars Hana awake at exactly 7:10, Korea time. She gropes for her phone, finding it lodged between her mattress and the metal slats of the headboard, and promptly hits ‘SNOOZE’. 

Rolling over, Hana pulls a soft blanket over her eyes and nestles back into the sheets.

The alarm rings again twenty minutes later, this time the losers’ theme: a signal that she’s missed breakfast but will make morning practice without reprimand if she gets out of bed immediately. Hana reluctantly throws back the comforter and sits up, digging a crusty particle out of her eye. She blearily regards the sparse room, devoid of posters, merchandise, and gaming rig.

Her previous day floods back in one extended rush; Hana frantically checks her phone for an update on Mina, sighing in relief at the sight of Nari’s message: Held for a day’s observation, but preparing for discharge, her symptoms having subsided very quickly after being returned to the hospital. 

All of MEKA’s been given a day off to visit her, which is just as well. Plucking at the worn collar of the borrowed, oversized t-shirt that she’d worn to sleep, Hana swings her legs over the edge of the bed and pushes herself to her feet.

Zenyatta, Lúcio and Genji are already in the dining area when she arrives, all of them looking as if they’ve been awake for hours. Genji, from his seat on the counter, acknowledges her with a silent tilt of his head before he turns his attention back to his phone; Lúcio and Zenyatta give significantly more enthusiastic greetings as she joins them at the table. 

“You’re up,” Hana says to Lúcio, “really early!”

“I’m running on New York time,” he tells her, picking his own phone up to check. “I think it’s thirteen hours ahead of Busan?”

“You mean behind.” Spinning on her heel in search of a window or some other indication as to the current timezone, Hana frowns as she finds none, and turns back to Lúcio with a curious expression on her face. “So it’s night time for you?”

He motions at the golden-brown crescent sitting on a plate in front of him, then pours her a glass of orange juice from a carton Genji sets on the table. “Have a calzone.”

“Eat quickly,” Genji says. “We have an appointment to keep.”

Hana looks up, fingers already shifting to avoid scalding on her breakfast. “Are we leaving? I thought you were gonna train me!”

Zenyatta speaks up this time, drifting closer as she takes a cautious bite. “Adjustments to your equipment must be made,” he says, the lights on his head flashing in what seems to be a cheery pattern as she eats. “We would normally allow it to proceed on its own as the orb adapts to your presence, but given Talon’s recent activity Genji and I felt it best to speed the process along. There is someone in New York who will help you.”

“It should not take very long, but we are already late.”

Hana finishes eating in relative silence, stealing glances at Genji as he turns his attention back to his phone. Lúcio gives her a sympathetic smile and a fork, then stands to follow Zenyatta back to the control center when the omnic excuses himself. 

Genji says nothing to her until she finishes the calzone and her orange juice, and even then he only prompts her to follow him out of the base and back into the closet elevator. 

A short ride on his motorcycle ends with both of them standing in front of a small, well-lit shop, HORIZON HYDROPONICS emblazoned on the awning. Hana glances curiously through glass windows at the rows of thick tubing lined up on one side of the store, and the display cases set up on the other, all brimming with greenery. She only vaguely registers the ding! of the bell over the door; when she finally turns to follow Genji in, she jumps.

“You’re late,” says the massive gorilla behind the counter, directing a very disgruntled look at Genji. 

Undeterred, Genji promptly removes a cardboard box from his backpack, presenting it with both hands and a polite half-bow. “Banana calzone,” he says, “strawberries, walnut, and chocolate.” A sheepish grin. “And my apologies for the delay.”

Hana hangs back until Genji beckons her forward, pulling her out of her shock. She approaches slowly, eyes still round. “Hi!” A cheery wave. “I’m Hana. Hana Song.”

“Our newest recruit,” Genji says, sounding very tired.

“Well, Hana, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The gorilla adjusts his glasses, then extends a hand, his rough palm completely enclosing Hana’s when she takes it. “My name is Winston.”

“Winston,” she repeats, nodding. Then, breaking into a grin, “Winston, you are _so cool_.”

“Oh, well.” He chuckles. “Thank you! I’ve heard plenty about you as well.” 

Understandably, Hana is significantly more surprised at this mention of her celebrity than she had been back on base. “You’ve heard of me? What have you heard?”

“Admittedly,” Winston says, “not much more than anyone else. Athena, if you would.”

_Hana Song, born 2061. Star player of professional TITAN’S DEEP eSports team MEKA. Based in Busan, South Korea, Song has over two million subscribers on her APMTV.kr channel, where she streams under the handle ‘D.Va’._

“Whoa,” Hana exclaims. “Is that an AI?” She holds a hand over her mouth, hiding her openly impressed expression; she turns to Genji next, not bothering to hide her grin and the smug raise of her brows. Genji simply looks over her shoulder, where a screen that had previously been displaying a relaxed montage of flowers flickers to a clip of a documentary— at least two years old— of a guided tour through the MEKA base. 

She recognizes it immediately, and watches with growing horror as a younger version of herself motions the cameraman into her room and indicates a cluttered wall with a wide flourish of her arm. Thankfully, Athena has spared them from the audio, and there are no captions displayed— but there’s no mistaking the collection of Over-Watchers merchandise on that wall. Green Ranger, every single one. 

Any desperate hope that Genji might not have been paying attention dies when Hana turns to look at him— expecting amusement, or at least smugness. He catches her eye long enough for her to register the grimace before he turns away, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You must be very excited,” Winston says, a laugh underlying his observation.

“Haha,” Hana says, “yeah.”

“Clearly,” says Genji, politely refraining from saying more. “She is our newest recruit. We need her weapon adjusted.”

Winston huffs in surprise. “How new are we talking?”

“Yesterday.” Genji turns fully to face the scientist. “Pink,” he adds.

Nodding, Winston leads them into the back of the shop— which turns out to be much larger than it appears. Behind an entire room dedicated to the same system of hydroponic planters as displayed in the shopfront, there’s a spacious work area, littered with machines and tools Hana has never seen before. “I haven’t had a chance to go through the file Zenyatta sent me yet,” Winston says, motioning for Hana to take a seat on the lone stool at his worktable, “but I’m guessing the particle cannon isn’t really her style.”

“Yeah, it’s bigger than I am!” Hana shakes her head, stretching both arms to the side to indicate the weapon’s size. “I always knew it was big, but it’s even bigger in person.”

“I could barely lift that thing myself,” Winston concurs, handing her a helmet. It’s a bare-bones setup, loosely zip-tied cables plugged into the back of the shell, winding across the floor from what looks like a server tower. The machine’s chassis is matte black, and a glowing, stylized blue ‘A’ indicates its power button.

Genji scoffs. “He’s being modest,” he mutters, shifting his weight between his feet with a grimace. “Winston could always lift several times more than any human, even when we were transformed.”

Hana looks between them, then finally pulls the helmet on. Her eyes disappear behind the opaque visor but her mouth curves into a grin. “Fastball special?” she drawls.

Winston laughs, blowing a hot puff of air over Hana’s shoulders as he secures the headgear. “Fastball special.”

The machine comes to life with a press of a button. Hana hears Winston shuffle to the other side of the desk. “Hey,” she says after a few seconds of watching Athena run automated scans, “I have a question. Am I gonna get a watch too?”

Genji looks at the timepiece strapped to his wrist— a remnant of his career as a Rider duo with Hanzo. “Over-Watchers use an app on the phone,” he tells her, “we can install it after. The watches are obsolete, technically speaking.”

“Then how come you have a watch?” Hana asks immediately, jaw jutting forward. 

“Watches,” Genji deflects, “are stylish. But not necessary for Rangers.” The watch always had been an essential component of his costume specifically, not the Over-Watchers; considering her history as a fan of the Green Ranger, maybe he should have expected the insistence.

“Hey mister,” Hana says. “Is there a way I can have one anyway?”

Genji pauses, about to retort until he realizes she’s referring to Winston, who shares a perplexed look with him. 

“It would be purely cosmetic,” Winston says. Then he adds, “You know, Genji here is my senior.”

The only evidence of Hana’s surprise is the jerk of her head in their direction when she briefly forgets she can’t see past the helmet over her face. She tries to form several words, then finally manages to say, “Oh,” and, “sorry!” Falling silent, she shuts her eyes, working on tuning out the buzz of static— and her pulse, the flush of embarrassment— in her ears. She hears Winston’s chuckle; his and Athena’s voices are easy to make out, but Genji’s is low, barely carrying over the noise.

“So,” Winston says, pulling his keyboard across the desk, “any progress tracking down your brother?”

Genji waits for a pause in the clack of plastic keys before answering. “We know he is no longer in New York,” he admits, visibly frustrated, “and there has been no news of any activity fitting his description in the last week.”

“Still laying low?” A thoughtful hum as the monitors begin to compile the readings from the scanner. What would be a quiet sound from anyone else practically reverberates through the entire room. “I’m surprised either of you have managed to fly under the radar as long as you have.”

Genji snorts, no doubt recalling his own dramatics as both a Ranger and before, when he had worked solo as a Rider. “I wonder that myself sometimes.” A long pause, punctuated by more typing. Winston glances over when the silence stretches on too long, and finds Genji watching Hana swing her feet.“When you have the time,” the Ranger says quietly, “we would appreciate a visit. Zenyatta especially. And, we have another recruit.”

“Two new Rangers already?” Winston asks, scratching his chin. “You _have_ been busy.”

“That,” Genji says, “and our base security was compromised recently.”

The clacking of keys stops. Winston frowns. “That’s pretty serious. I’ll stop by as soon as I can. Athena can watch the shop for a day.”

 _‘Or the shop can simply close,’_ Athena suggests.

“Sooner would be better,” Genji says. “You may have to do another adjustment in a week, regardless.”

That gets him a curious look. “Is something changing about your orb?”

Genji shakes his head. “Lúcio volunteered to become a Ranger first, but Hana paired with an orb before he had the chance. Since we are adjusting her equipment manually, I think it would be advisable to do the same for his.” Genji glances at Hana as she sighs, impatient and fidgety but unwilling to interrupt the scanning process. He turns back to Winston with a meaningful look. “There is more in the file.”

Winston sighs, placing his hands over his keyboard again. “I really will have to look it over, then.”

* * *

Back in the front of the store, Hana grins, tabbing through the new application installed on her phone. Communication settings, transformation sequence options and individual statistics— even a record of transformation times (only one entry, but not for long). The pastel pink bunny theme is just a plus.

“Hana,” Genji says, prompting her to look up at his tone.

“Oh, sorry!” She starts, moving aside from the door, solving one problem. He hands her the pot in his hands, solving the second. Hana frowns at the single flowering cactus.

“Now, I don’t mean to be rude,” Winston sighs, putting away a roll of wrapping paper and the biggest pair of shears Hana’s ever seen in her life, “but it’s time for you to go. It’s two hours past closing.”

 _‘Two hours,’_ says Athena, _‘and twelve minutes, fourteen seconds. It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Song.’_

When the shop door shuts behind them, the tinny ring of a bell and a CLOSED sign marking their exit, Genji sighs. The breath lifts his bangs from his forehead. “That went well,” he says, turning briskly on his heel and digging into his pocket for the key to his motorcycle. “Better than I expected. Let’s return to base.”

“So you really are the Green Ranger, aren’t you?” Hana says.

Genji stops.

“It’s okay,” she goes on, sighing. “I get it. I have fans too.” Warily, Genji allows her to look him over, tolerating the hand she puts on his shoulder. Hana looks at him with a begrudging expression, lips twisted as if forced to remember something unpleasant. “I just want you to know,” she says, “that my opinion of you has changed.”

“Alright,” Genji replies, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t care. Then, remembering the video Athena had shown— the _entire wall_ of merchandise designed after his younger self— he sighs. “That is probably for the best.”

Hana regards him critically, then sniffs. “Well, anyway, I thought we agreed to be team players.”

“We… did.”

“You guys talked about me while I was getting scanned, didn’t you. Did you tell him that I’m annoying?”

“I did not tell Winston that you are annoying,” Genji says, finally locating his keys in one of his jacket’s inner pockets. “I told him that you like to talk about yourself.” 

Offended, Hana punches him (thumb under, leading with the knuckles; good form, he notes offhandedly). She storms ahead, grumbling, “You’re so rude! I should’ve known!” Genji follows, catching up in time to hear her mutter, “How does Lúcio get along with you? He’s so nice. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You could ask him,” he suggests. 

“I _did_.” Hana scuffs her shoe against the ground, white rubber against concrete. “And,” she laments, “I asked Zenyatta too. It’s like they’re in love with you or something.”

Genji stops, staring for a long second at Hana’s shoulders before he shakes his head and lengthens his stride to fall into step at her flank. “Let’s go back to base. We can test out your new gear and see what needs work.”

“Actually can I request leave?” She looks over his shoulder at him as they approach his bike, turning the pot in her hands. “I gotta head back to Korea,” Hana explains, “and make sure Mina’s okay.”

“You don’t have to request leave.” Genji catches the helmet she lobs at him, pulling it on as Hana leap-frogs onto the passenger seat. “Rangers come and go when they want,” he tells her.

“Oh. Can I just show up on base when I’m done?”

A nod. “You set an access code with the app.”

“Cool.” Hana clenches her hand over her shoulder, drawing the fist diagonally across her torso. “You still have to teach me to transform!”

A pause. Genji inhales slowly through his teeth at the familiar gesture, idly cycling through the transformation sequences of each Ranger on the former Over-Watchers roster for any other member who’d activated their orb with the same motion. He comes up empty. 

She watches him expectantly as he swings his leg over his seat and settles in. “Also,” Genji adds, “how to use your new weapon.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And how to fight properly,” he rattles off, “Ranger vocabulary, orb maintenance…”

Hana frowns. “I have to maintain it?”

Genji turns his head, fixing his visor on her face, his brows rising behind the darkened fiberglass. “Yes,” he says as the motorcycle roars to life. “You must meditate for several hours a day and perform a ritual sacrifice each month.”

“You liar,” Hana retorts immediately, then pauses. “That’s a joke, right?”

“We do group meditations on Tuesdays,” Genji deadpans.

She scoffs, an exasperated laugh in her voice as she strikes his shoulder with the heel of her palm. “Just drive,” she says. “Your jokes are the worst.”

* * *

Lúcio muffles a yawn as he steps through the sliding doors of the elevator back into base, phone in one hand and trumpet in the other. A new text thread— Hana’s— already contains 4 unread messages. 

> hey i forgot to thank you again for helping my friend in busan! thank you!  
> let me know if you want to come to a MEKA event, i’ll definitely get you seats  
> soooo excited to finally start ranger training ^^  
> oh, this is hana by the way... zenyatta gave me your number 

He texts back:

> hey, good to have you on base!  
> you eat dinner yet?  


Her reply is almost immediate. 

> i had lunch earlier? wow, this timezone thing is so weird  
> we got a week off! big changes to MEKA but it’ll be fine  
> i told my team i’m going to acting school so they won’t suspect a thing

Zenyatta floats into the control center just as Lúcio sets down his equipment. He takes his hat off his head, putting on a smile for the approaching omnic. “Hey!” he greets.

“Welcome back, Lúcio. How was your rehearsal?”

“It went well, I think. Thanks!” Grinning, Lúcio hefts his trumpet in his hand. “Only a couple more shows before the next stop on my tour. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Zenyatta chuckles at the expression. “You are welcome here as long as you require, Lúcio. In the meantime,” he goes on, floating toward the kitchen, “dinner is ready.”

Lúcio falls into step beside him, matching his pace. “Is it pizza?”

“It is.”

Genji’s loitering in the kitchen when Lúcio finally enters, rolling an empty bottle of his usual protein shake across the table with one hand as he swipes intermittently across his phone screen with the other. He looks up, smiling, and sets the bottle upright before motioning for Lúcio to take one of the empty seats. “Welcome back.”

“Anything happen while I was out?” Lúcio asks as he sits, stuffing his own phone into his pocket and swiping up the liter of ginger ale on the table to pour himself a glass. He tilts the bottle pointedly toward Genji, who declines with a discreet shake of his head.

“Not much.” Genji glances over his shoulder to check the progress of the pizza baking in the machine behind him, then turns back to Lúcio. “How was rehearsal?”

“Went great!” Taking a long sip of his drink, Lúcio slouches back in his seat and glances at the ceiling, briefly tracing a crack in the grey stone with his eyes. “I’m looking for a place around the next stop on my tour, but if it’s close to a portal? Can I call them portals? If it’s close to a portal, I’ll take you up on that.”

It probably hasn’t escaped Genji’s notice that the amount of time he’d planned to stay has been steadily extending— not that anyone seems to mind. The Ranger shares a look with Zenyatta, then turns back to Lúcio. “You’re practically a Ranger already,” he says. “Feel free to think of your room as yours.”

“Hana’s back already, right?”

This time, Zenyatta answers. “She is settling into her room. We thought it would be better for her to stay here for the week as well before returning to MEKA.”

“Right, she mentioned that.” Nodding, Lúcio looks sideways at Genji and raises his brows. “You looking forward to it?”

“I know Hana is. It will be better than having to juggle team practice and Ranger training at once.” Genji stands when the machine dings, turning to retrieve a pie from the conveyor belt as it rolls out. He regards the plate with a wry smile before setting it on the table. “Do you want to eat something other than pizza? I know it gets old.”

“I wouldn’t mind some variety,” Lúcio answers, sitting up to look, “but I’m not sure I could live on protein shakes either.” His expression brightens when he sees the toppings— generous amounts of mozzarella interspersed with bright green peas, the pie’s surface drizzled with a verdant, fragrant pesto. “You know I could just get takeout or groceries when I want, too.”

Genji accepts that with a pensive nod, but turns his head toward an area of the base that Lúcio hasn’t yet had a chance to explore. “I think we have a ramen machine in storage,” he says. “Shambali Noodles faced too much competition when we tried to expand.”

“And a dumpling machine,” Zenyatta adds cheerfully. “They were both active, here on base, when the Over-Watchers were a larger team.”

Reaching across the table for a slice of the pizza, Lúcio pauses, food halfway to his mouth, to comment, “Sounds like a lot of trouble to put together.” A bite. “Getting supplies and everything.”

Genji dismisses the concern with a casual wave of his hand, head tilting back to bare the vulnerable line of his neck. “I wouldn’t mind a project to work on between sightings of my elusive brother.”

“If you’ll let me help set them up,” Lúcio quips around a mouthful of cheese, “I think a ramen and-or dumpling machine sounds great.”

“Deal. In the meantime,” Genji says, indicating kitchen with a short sweep of his arm, “we have pizza.”

A new presence appears in the doorway, dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. “Hey!” Hana calls, practically bouncing in place, “I’m all ready!”

Genji pushes his seat back as he stands, visibly collecting himself. “We will be in the training area,” he says, lips quirking in a wry, knowing expression. “Feel free to join us when you are finished, Lúcio. Master?”

“I have optimized the settings for transformation based on the feedback from the first time,” Zenyatta replies. “I trust you will make more adjustments as needed.”

Hana doesn’t wait on a response, spinning on her heel and dashing out of the kitchen with a whoop. Genji lingers long enough to brush Zenyatta’s shoulder with his own, acknowledging the words with a quick nod. “I will. Thank you.”

* * *

Lúcio joins them nearly thirty minutes later, post-shower and a change into casual clothes. He ducks in quietly with a glass of ginger ale and settles on one of the low, narrow benches scattered along the perimeter of the room. Zenyatta trails behind, sitting next to him without a word. Genji greets them both with a short nod before turning back to Hana. She looks back from waving just as his Driver materializes around his waist.

“Wait! I missed it, do it again!” She watches, rapt, as he dismisses it and runs through the procedure a second time. Hana whips out her phone, and with minimal trial and error, materializes her belt as well. 

Genji nods. “After this point,” he says, “most Rangers come up with their own sequence. The orb responds well to personalization, and it strengthens the bond. It’s also good to have a unique gesture. For branding purposes.”

She scrunches her nose, then glances down at the pink emblem where a buckle usually sits. “Anything I shouldn’t do?”

“If it works for you,” Genji sighs, “it’s not a problem. We are a much less visible organization than we used to be.”

“What about the actual transformation?”

“It’s simpler than you’re probably thinking.” He raises his arms in a standard flex. “Unique to each Ranger, and very intuitive.” A wide step to the side, leaning his weight on the forward leg, one bicep across. “Our former Pink would do this.”

“Oh,” Hana laughs, more than a little entertained at the swagger he mimics perfectly from someone with a frame twice his size. “I remember that!”

“The first Red would cross his arms over his chest,” Genji goes on, demonstrating, “and when he became the Black Ranger,” he adds, subtly widening his stance, rolling his shoulders to match— instantly turning a self-contained pose into an assertive one— “he did this. For effect.”

When he looks back over, Hana’s mouth is hanging open. “The original Red Ranger became the Black Ranger? They were the same person?”

“Ah.” Genji straightens. “That information wasn’t made public. But you are a Ranger now, so I suppose you have the right to know. It happens rarely, but if the team dynamic changes drastically, or the Ranger themselves changes drastically…” He scrubs a hand over his nose. “You get the idea.”

“I can’t believe the internet was right.” Hana stares a moment at the Over-Watchers logo in the center of the mat, then suspiciously narrows her eyes at him. “So there’s only one Green Ranger?”

“Most Rangers remain the same color their entire career,” Genji cheerfully informs her, and moves on. “Do what feels natural. The orb will respond to a movement that has meaning to you, or makes you feel heroic.”

Hana tries a few, imitating each of the demonstrated actions, then running through the rest of the Over-Watchers’ that she remembers. She frowns, even hesitantly throwing in Genji’s pose before turning a plaintive look on him. “How come it was so easy to transform earlier?”

“It’s a failsafe. The orb will activate in emergencies,” Genji explains, “especially in life-threatening situations. But getting in the habit of transforming before you’re in such danger is preferable. Keep trying,” he says, putting his hands on his hips.

Blowing the bangs out of her face, Hana collects herself, throwing him a dubious look. He waits patiently as she settles into a stance. Then she stands up straight again, stamping her feet. “I can’t do this with you staring at me! Can’t you turn around or something?”

“What?” Holding back an incredulous laugh, Genji scoffs. “I’m the one training you.”

“Then go over there with the other guys. You’re making me nervous! What are you, my highschool gym teacher?”

She waits expectantly as Genji makes a face, obligingly dismissing his belt to wander to the edge of the mats. He turns halfway, motioning for her to keep trying. Hana shoos him in response. By the time he slips on his shoes again, Zenyatta has made room for him on the bench; there’s just enough space between himself and Lúcio to squeeze in. 

Genji hesitates, but Zenyatta insists, patting the empty spot. “Thank you,” he murmurs, settling heavily into the seat.

“Of course,” the omnic replies. 

“Making progress?” Lúcio asks, lightly nudging Genji in the side with an elbow. On the mats, Hana runs through a series of punches and kicks.

“I hope so.” Genji clasps his hands in an effort to minimize the space he’s taking up, but briefly leans over to return the friendly contact. “It usually takes longer for a new Ranger to even summon their driver belt, but she has no problem visualizing it.”

Lúcio grins. His gaze flickers toward Genji, a humorous glint in his eyes. “Think it’s ‘cause she used to imagine being an Over-Watcher all the time?”

The expression on Genji’s face is a mix of resignation and exhaustion. “I suppose that could help,” he allows, returning the look. He brings his attention to Hana again, tracking her movements as she attempts a hop, both her arms raised in the air. Nothing happens. She tries jumping with more gusto, to the same effect. “But, it doesn’t make the transformation itself any easier.”

“Maybe I should start working mine now. Get a head start. Yeah?”

“Please,” Genji says, chin in his hand now that Hana is doing cartwheels. “It might spare you some of,” he gestures toward her, “whatever this is.”

After a few minutes of silently observing the newest Ranger, Zenyatta shifts, his shoulders moving back. The sensors on his forehead flash, and he turns his head to regard Genji— who’s already closely watching him. “Winston,” he announces, “has informed me that he is on his way here.”

Genji stands. “I’ll meet him at the door.”

“Winston?”

“A friend,” Genji explains, “and a scientist. One of the few in the world we trusted with the knowledge of Ranger technology. If you would like to meet him now, Master Zenyatta can assist Hana here.”

Hana seems to have caught the exchange. Her eyebrows are raised in a silent query when Genji looks at her. “Bye,” she quips, pitching her voice to carry. Genji points to the center of the mat, then opts for a simple handwave. 

She rolls her eyes, but recenters herself as directed.

Lúcio follows him to the control center, leaning against the main panel as Genji settles in front of it and pulls up the base’s security protocols. A map of the headquarters pops up, several areas highlighted in red. Beside that is a transport log, listing the last dozen or so uses of the elevator-closet portal, timestamps and points of origin included. 

Another entry slots into place. A ping issues from behind them, and Lúcio looks over, expecting the usual door— instead he sees an opening no less than two meters wide, and a new arrival just as unexpected.

Winston eases himself carefully into the control center, still oversized in a closet meant for a team of human-sized Rangers. “I keep meaning to install a bigger door,” he grumbles, straightening his glasses. 

“ _Nossa!_ ” Lúcio breathes, eyes wide.

Genji stands. “Welcome to base, Winston.”

“It’s good to be back.” Winston turns back to the closet to retrieve a container, but pauses upon catching sight of Lúcio. “Oh! Hello there. You must be Lúcio.”

“That’s me,” Lúcio grins, pointing at himself. He bounds forward without hesitation, arm outstretched, and shakes Winston’s significantly larger hand. “Winston, right? Nice to meet you!”

Surprised, Winston gingerly returns the gesture and then backs up a step, the better to get a look at him. “Likewise,” he says, a touch uncertain, but bares a toothy smile at the friendly pat on his arm. He turns to greet Genji next. “I finished going through the debrief and Zenyatta’s report,” he tells the Ranger, raising his brows. “You really should’ve told me about the EMP yesterday. If you’re experiencing any complications, it’s best to catch them sooner.”

“I haven’t experienced anything unusual,” Genji reassures him, “but it would set my master at ease if you ran your own diagnostics as well. I didn’t want to worry Hana in the shop.”

“No problem at all. But first, let’s take a look at those security breaches.” 

Lúcio watches Winston set his things beside the control panel, eyeing the collection of tools and parts overflowing from his bag. Then he turns his attention to the command prompt window on-screen. “Does this place get broken into a lot?”

“Security was top of the line when the Over-Watchers were active. Once all the attention died down, maintainence wasn’t such a priority anymore.” Winston adjusts his glasses, leaning closer to the screen. “Still in pretty good shape, if you ask me, but we’ll have to do some upgrades if someone’s trying to get in.”

Genji nods, exhaling slowly. With finding Hanzo on top of his priorities list, keeping their system up to date had fallen by the wayside. Still, with a reformed team and a renewed threat, security would by necessity make its way back up. “Any specific vulnerabilities we should watch for?”

It takes nearly a minute for Winston to answer, distracted as he scans a week’s worth of logs. Finally pausing on a few entries that look to Genji exactly like all the others, he taps the screen. “Preliminary results show Sombra attached a worm to an incoming data packet,” he muses. “Zenyatta’s been processing a lot of information from security cameras, so not all of them could be pre-scanned. Some of these exploits are much harder to detect now than they were when this system was last updated.”

Lúcio leans forward, craning his head for a better look. He pats Genji’s arm in thanks when the Ranger moves aside. “So you’re updating it now?”

“Just patching the security protocols.”

Genji cuts in again, squinting at the screen. “Would that throttle the connection? It’s already so slow.”

“Actually,” says Winston, “this system is still years ahead of the most current technology available to civilians so you won't see any extra lagging.” Adjusting his glasses he adds, “Not much I can do about your internet speed, though. I don’t see you getting broadband out here anytime soon.”

 _Out here?_ Lúcio’s attention drifts from the screen to Winston’s pack again. A few cables dangle out of it, connectors similar but clearly not the same as the control panel’s slots. 

“Testing’s going to take a while,” Winston says at last, taking a step back from the control panel and picking up his gear. “In the meantime we can look over Zenyatta’s report, Genji.” 

A nod. Genji drags a hand through his hair, starting after Winston as the scientist turns and heads toward the medical bay. 

Hanging back, Lúcio silently watches Genji’s slow gait, his slumped shoulders. The Ranger doesn’t signal for him to follow, but when he glances over his shoulder and flashes Lúcio a smile, he starts forward. “You guys’re talking about the EMP, right? Would you mind taking a look at my skates, too?” Lúcio turns a sheepish grin on Winston when he turns his head. “They got shut down. Been acting weird since.”

“Not a problem.”

“And Hana?” Genji asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. The uneasy reluctance from seconds earlier seems to be gone with the distraction, replaced with his usual cool composure. “Her armor may also be vulnerable.”

A grin. Winston adjusts his glasses, shoulders straightening. “Hana’s running the most up-to-date software already,” he tells them. “Her uniform’s core functions are already EMP-shielded, and the secondary equipment will come back online shortly after being EMP’d or hacked.”

“Man,” Lúcio mutters, “technology evolves fast.”

“New Rangers should all benefit from that, since Zenyatta keeps his firmware up to date.” Glancing over his shoulder, Winston seems to reconsider document review with Genji, and he regards Lúcio with a curious eye. “For older tech, I’ll have to do a manual upgrade. If Genji can help me retrieve my equipment from the Vancouver warehouse, we should be done by the end of the day.”

Much more cheery now, Genji turns on his heel and trots to the dial beside the entrance, turning it three-quarters of the way clockwise. “We can go now,” he says, “I will set the coordinates.”

They both turn to Lúcio, expectant looks on their faces. Lúcio glances between them, struck momentarily by the sheer _coincidence_. “Vancouver, Canada?” he asks, just to confirm.

“There is a Shambali Pizza in Vancouver,” Genji confirms. “Why?”

“Next stop on my tour’s in Vancity,” he says.

A blink, then a slow, wry smile. “Then it’s fortunate for all of us,” Genji quips, his voice warm, “that you can stay here longer.”

Winston coughs awkwardly into his fist. “That said, I think it’s best if we head out now. I took a look at the plans you sent, and it’ll be a while before everything’s up and running properly.”

“Hey,” Lúcio cuts in, “could I come along? Never been to Vancouver before. I can scope out the new venue while I’m out there.”

Genji smiles— an expression that Lúcio recognizes now as sincerely pleased. “Of course.”

They pile into the elevator, Lúcio laughing as he shrinks against the wall. Genji, beside him, huffs as Winston squeezes in, bulky armor leaving almost no leeway for other passengers. The doors slide shut and Lúcio wrinkles his nose as a long, bristly hair tickles the inside of his nostril— stray fur from Winston’s well-maintained ruff.

Stumbling into a store that’s identical to the one in New York (other than the pervasive scent of maple syrup), Lúcio immediately approaches a machine to peer into a window in its side. Genji and Winston make their own rounds through the kitchen, briefly inspecting each machine to ensure that they’re all working properly. 

Lúcio tracks them through the room out of the corner of his eye, and pulls his attention away from the machine when they seem finished. He falls into step behind Genji as he leads the way to the door. Expecting the other man to stroll right through— one hand on its edge to prevent the door from swinging out and hitting someone on the other side as he shoulders it open— Lúcio makes a startled sound when he runs face-first into Genji’s back.

The Ranger doesn’t respond, frozen in place. Winston leans over Lúcio’s head, easily clearing the height to look into the dining area. His eyes widen, the fur around his neck bristling in surprise.

“Genji?” someone asks.

Genji backs up a step, bumping into Lúcio again.

“Genji,” the same person asks again, “is that really you?”

Lúcio looks up, regarding the back of Genji’s head, the tense set of his shoulders. Craning his head to the side he catches sight of his expression, stuck between shock and guilt; then, resignation, as he takes a more assured step into the shopfront.

“Fareeha.”


End file.
